My people, I reach down from my white death cloud: | 1 |
To my people, each one I love a little, | 2 |
sometimes enough to exhaust them beyond their means -- | 3 |
My blessed babies eating biscuits | 4 |
of industrial sugar. | 5 |
Smoking like steel factories -- | 6 |
dark matter binds their hair, | 7 |
bug nests in the pits of their arms and knees | 8 |
warming their wings by the hot red glow of the wet gents. | 9 |
People walk with bricks of cement stuck to the bottom of their foam shoes. | 10 |
Murmurs in the gutter between the dead cigarettes -- | 11 |
that his bones hurt, | 12 |
and shh, please, don't remind me about my bones. | 13 |
Statues for faces, lips never curl in any direction. | 14 |
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The dog will cross the street when he is walking north or south -- | 15 |
any other way will give him jay-walking tendencies. | 16 |
The loaf-cats hump between a roof and a roof gutter. | 17 |
Sleep time I will hear them whining, each one, and my spine will electrocute itself, | 18 |
and my face will crumble down and wrinkle like a cemetery junkie, | 19 |
and my hair will cut itself short like a man's hair, | 20 |
and my eyes ignite by the fire behind them. | 21 |
Lungs punctured by cigarettes, | 22 |
my hands groan. | 23 |
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The evening bird in the window comes to the auction, | 24 |
and I am sold for two twigs, the elbow of a puzzle piece, | 25 |
and the pointing finger of a child statue. | 26 |
I wave goodbye to the infant I once was, to the adolescent who angered me, | 27 |
shake hands with the weathered garbage I stand inside. | 28 |
The mannequin with a brown curtain mane | 29 |
falls over herself into the sink, and weeps into the water, | 30 |
and the dishes are a choir of wealthy men. | 31 |