Wednesday, July 01, 2015

all the grooming politesse of night

O men dreary rolling their armpits
through the steam
oh look he says to the mirror oh look
that's all
this is what it is to live
to have to cater for secretions and stench
to work with to manage
he lights a cigarette and blows a faceful
of smirking smoke
stuffs it in the plug with hisses
there now, block up, he whispers
you are nothing but a trap

full of hair and death
of most unfortunate breath

suddenly startled at himself
he goes straight back to bed
to perform last vile acts before work

in th bathrm a elephant as if
forms itself
but does not shave

three women of ages without hair appear dead
in the bath

without grace or meaning
the beat and industry

trumpet and jazz
jazz and strumpet

gone to work far-off
in mists of southern slick





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