Saturday, March 24, 2007

election poem

Stations
have not wrapped around you
as string sounds might
if they may, autumn
or June cold coming close.

March is still safe
march on like a highway.
Uncertainty magnifies loud voices
the little tyrannies
of boredom.

Perhaps sex on a train
would be quick.
Fuck the indicators!
They mean nothing.

The city’s spilt seed
is gashed by taxis.
I have no balls to hide
nothing to hang on to
the levers don’t work anyway.

Maybe it’s an election
strategy you’re too tired
to believe in -
the sore arse and the sorry breast
whipped and milked.

Perhaps it’s more fun
than breathing.

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