UNDER PRESSURE,
EVERYTHING SPRAYS
When the gutturals start to talk
you know I won't be listening:
Those outside lights are too shiny
for me. Up here I just look down at
the water and realize I'm treetops
to it. Funny feeling; a thousand
feet off and a hundred feet high.
-
Some grimy motorcycle enters
the scene and I can hear it a half
mile away : The fools with the radios
are the worst. It emanates, like that
skunk right now sending forth its
rough perfume. Where is that, and
how's it go?
-
Under pressure, everything sprays.
Even the lips, twisting around the
gutturals, manage to leave their
sprays behind. I can't tell you what
I mean, until I really mean it.
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