tweet tweet says the sheep and I know
something of what he means, enough
to kill the lights on the monolith. there is
a welt on my back, where the master's
whip made a world and it's going through
rapid and brutal industrialization, hence
the rust stains, my bed's a wreck. I only see
it mirrored, inverted, hence uncertainty
about the flags and newscasts. if the
spirit is a bone, but it isn't is it… too much
junk mail for the finer tuning, well
look who's transcended trash taking out
and look who's learnt the crawl. thin
coffee and space exploration but my bed-time
reading haunts the snooze interlude
between alarms. some monstrous baby-thing
screaming put up or shut up like a fife playing
drill sargeant and no, but if you hum
a few bars I'll see if it all comes back
to me, like the life I lost for witness
protection, like my number back in '83.
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