Stop Signs and Wooden Crates (repeat repeat repeat)

Bubble gum bubbles.
Heart-throb heartache.
Record player playing records.
Come repeat my repetition with me.
A simulated simulation of a hologram,
a planted plant wilting in the wintry days.
Everything gray, everything drifting away.

I’m here, if you knock, I’ll answer.
I’m waiting at a stop sign, waiting for a sign.
I’m digging through previously dug holes,
looking for a new route to Chinese factories,
where I heard they’re manufacturing a new Me.

Blow in, blow out.
We’re like turbulence,
shaking old ladies’ beehives,
just a sand drift on the seaside.

There’s an empty bottle
on the window sill…
I don’t know whose it is,
which booze it is,
but I’m sure I had a sip,
and maybe I had a fifth.

Define the definition of the repetition.
Sitting in the kitchen, staring at the kitten.
We’re both waiting for milk, for something real.
Innocent and vulnerable; only…
my thoughts kill.

Hers purr.

She jumps in my lap, I jump back.
The mouse runs across the floor,
we both attack. We measure our fur
against some foreign odor.
I think I’m human. She thinks she’s a cat.
She’s more sure. The world rotates
like a rotating plate. I stand at the window,
I stand at the gate. The wind comes and oscillates.
Our bones shift and grate, end up in wooden crates.

The last thing you’ll hear from me, sung by a singer
in a Karaoke bar, is “I’ll stop the world and melt for you.”
But we’re living in a tundra with no sun ta’ warm up ta’.

T.S Elliot
B.S. Smelly Shit.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I’m beat.



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