Snip the wires and settle down; muffle them bells, the least one's done for me - dazed scan for data, nope, he don't live around here, stories, just scrutinise his numb study - dabbling among gutters to spy vainly, what's the bar system? - to be almost silent, like a mouse-trap, then pilfer, on the police radio, a smoky sky cluttered with malevolent emotions reified. The bad thing about dreams - they come true, and you have to join in - a crack-up threatens - the newer the vein, the more the nurse hurts. Her bluff is magnetic, electric - just money loose in the bank, heyday brilliance now dull like a bulb in a poor kitchen. Three rings, don't pick it up, a gesture pointing to a cigarette butt spun hissing into the wet yardDid you call me impotent? What punk's glib tirade what damage what leak? Talk to me in lip synch. I'm sticking a nib's complaint right in here and I guess it'll soon be time to go - the watercolours on the wall make a house a home, however dim the light - the submission that comes from escape, the money projected onto the landscape as though a god were fondling the terrain - hey, Fatso, is that the highway patrol? Stop reading that adolescent cryptic trash; get ready for dark agony lustre clash, the more bizarre the better, that's what the money means - we're not bankers, we're their opposite numbers.
|The East Village Poetry Web