MAN AM I BEAT
I'm in the sculpture room,
listening to torture radio 101,
which is somehow it - one
of those idiot kids with purloined
hair and tattoo'd smudges where
her lips should be has left it on
again. I figure myself for a
goldrush of doubt; any moment
now. The parking lot out front is
blemish-free - all those over-the-top
regardless cars are piling up again :
the distraught mothers with the
dangly airs and all those little kids
they drag around. Yes, I can see
them from here. Six kids and a
declension of two. You'd think
they'd just give it up by now;
use their hands instead, No
matter now. man am I beat.
This shadow play is killing
me, a monstrous salvation
I'd long forgot about.
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