The thinly stretched fabric
Is showing all the curving skin
Its tributaries paying tribute
To minds and lives lost down
The stream of consciousness
I am one of these men
I lie prostrate and say 'okay'
I am not okay
Let it all cook in my ears like a fever
I could lick your eyes when you move
My tribe - I am the chief -
They play for me a sweet melody on rotted teeth
Stamping my stick on a floor
Dressed in yellow leaves
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