Saturday, January 12, 2008

the source of it all

Opened up your throat
thought about what a man had said to me
he said to me
i was young once
and i don't know when it stopped
he was clasped in spun wool
hugged it to his bones and he
flicked the spittle in his grey mustache
Slid down the pink walls
thought about the matchbook
that told me to look up
in the cold room with bad lighting crackling
look up and see
someone I could know
To nestle into soft vocal chords
the source of it all

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