Saturday, 1 May 2010

Effing beeps

Stuck in a hole, 
with holes on dryers, 
being eaten alive by moulding damp flies;
with the whistle of engines,
twisting blown cochlea's,
a few notches down,
from a killing spree line.

"But, ne'r mind,"
says the streak of red viscous rust, 
so closely matched,
to gaping wide throats - 
that bubble in bile - 
as the whistle of engines,
and holes on dryers,
convert havens
into tranquil beeps...

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