Tuesday, March 06, 2007


The beat beat . beat
And you hear the rhythms of mother,
She is her own mistress,
and she spank yo ass if you notty.

I cut through the gently falling,
heavens, they touch my skin, urging me,
faster, faster, your clothes, they are wet,
I feel reborn, but no, hardly, I'm still grimy from my day's,
work work. Just mildly refreshed... Still need a shower.

In my hand, two hangers, one pair of British India trousers,
another red shirt, in a plastic bag. and holding it, by the seam...
So it won't get wet. Afterall, you don't get something dry cleaned,
and then get it wet...

I am dog like, I taste salt. Its my sweat... highly diluted.
There's a slightly oily texture, Hm. Need to wash my face.
I am different now.
I have source material for another poem.

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