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A Memory of the Players in a Mirror at Midnight

 They mouth love's language.
Gnash The thirteen teeth Your lean jaws grin with.
Lash Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung, As sour as cat's breath, Harsh of tongue.
This grey that stares Lies not, stark skin and bone.
Leave greasy lips their kissing.
None Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.
Dire hunger holds his hour.
Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.
Pluck and devour!

by James Joyce
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