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Number Eleven
(Choir Fold)
A glued glass of water
this time glued for the weather and clammy
fingers
I touch the rim, slowly work down –
sip it slow; there isn’t much left
of me, of collapsing whistles
Of polluted music there is too much and terrifying
I find it has left, upon the exhaust of other moods, seasons
creeping slowly, shifty glazedlook in the eyes
redrimmed, bloodshot to tearing
What about the worth of noise
even if
it is everything after all
there are lapses between its off-on pattern
coalesces and I forget
why I began
or if I did?
Where will it crack
open;
and spill its gutteral fruit?
I dreamt a road infinite, no cracks in the tar, no blood upon its feet
but when the plates from the play table
crashed as waves often do
upon the tired shore of the plaster wall
I forgot why I began vicious
and see it’s just an old radio show
playing out on a taut wire;
a carefully practised script with a lovely crescent
in the middle
where the fat lady cracks her lid
and spills a note like euphoria
and she begs me not to start
or open that door again
She is so beautiful, persuasive –
I can see where I began,
and where, inside, I’ll end.
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Eat shit and poop it out, then repeat ten million times til you become a saggy old basset hound.
www.myspace.com/jakeharms
for music, writing stuff
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