Monday, October 08, 2012


Your body is leaking math:
that's not abstraction, that's fact.
Add it up. You are a puddle of mercury
splattered against the fantastic people
who love your great songs.
I would ripple with enthusiasm
like an astronaut's face during takeoff
if you had the science to make that happen.
Tip a cup of oil on your lap to make things
run smoother. I want the miracle of breathing
to envelop the cavity of your purple
lungs. I want a real stainless steel
seat to support your ass
as you speak through a megaphone
to the people who done gone,
won't answer back.


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