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She walked away.

 
 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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Disproportion is being built.

 

In an area of Baghdad reserved for government officials and foreign dignitaries, buildings are being built.  From this vantage you can even see the corrupted, oversized underclothes that hang from the balconies.
 
 
 

On the outside perimeter, a woman dressed as a man steals a car to sell the parts. Raw sewage seeps into the streets of her neighborhood. The faucets dispense no running water, and she has already missed the day’s two-hour electricity ration.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

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Multi-level complex of the inner ear.
 
 

Inside one of its sound-proof chambers.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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Auto mechanic with car.

 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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The weather is ruined.

Very low clouds appear as proof of extreme atmospheric pressure, ahead of a brief downpour in the suburbs where a few minutes before you met a woman studying water cures between the legs of the river Tigris. A uniformed man makes a pitch for a box of readymade meals. Everything blows up and then you are covered in the smell of violence, dust, and crud, and finally low hanging rain soaks color back into the air just enough at least before setting about somewhere else.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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The mud theatre.

 

 
Out along the base of a mudden mound, a house and good people live inside, we snuggle together and then sit upright, we talk in love and liberation with our pencil and sheet of paper pierced with every stroke I write the dialog you say some words, constructing mud-like phrases from dirt wetted and sun-baked intent and full of desire — not the battle horn of another dictator we all knew now from pictures — this desire is popular and mobile and your life and being and worth and culturally and so on as ours. You say it is 1964 and when I look down I am wearing a short skirt with a red mouth and teeth that look as polished beads, I say no no this is Baquba of the two-thousand-ten-or-so desires of an Arab, my love.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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I don’t want to breathe.

 

I seem to have lost you behind a smokescreen of grand assertions.
 
 

I don’t want to breathe when even the air has ulterior motives.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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