clang and clash to the slighted,
hip-hop hop-scotch beat outside,
wondering the days away
in such a massive lilt:
conjuring images musically intoned
and stripped of essential elements
brought on by the last time
kissing. Wouldn't it
be a wonder to shift the petty
political stratagem small-talk out;
the last word only a day away
and the easy trip-time speeches
that conclude a veritable
nothing, a switchblade something,
a twisted metal drumming, all
played out to screams
of drunken sisters
and sun-dried brothers,
mashed like potatoes
with milky mother underclothes;
sapped of strength and sitting in a whirlpool
of their own garden-hose shit.
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