Friday, November 26, 2010


Hush, this toilet seat is falling off;
I hide but the yellowed curtain is reproachful.

Look at the sink, you cunt,

There are holes you can't repair,
Because teeth that shine can't see ever,
Including your tobacco blighted ones.

That raspy curtain voice came to me again
When in a single windowed study-bedroom,
I wished upon a music-less kite.

It haunted me in ragged dreams,
In snide voices by the cafe,
While I lfited my feet to a winded window,
In the footfalls of my flatmates,
In aunty's toothless grin,
By shrubs of wooded side walks,
In the friendliness of the society dogs.

Apparently, there is something to be said
On the state of disrepair.

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