"I've got this killer up inside of me... I can't talk to my mother, (friends, women, coworkers, associates, affiliates, city council, the internets, the homeless or even your mother) so I talk to my diary."

-that Scarface song from Office Space

Hole in the World

What do you think;
by wrist on wall
or ankle from ceiling
my time reverberates against
’til she’s hammered me in
scents of her part
in change I pay for her role
odours exchanged in the way
she plays my milky white strumpet
the music I’ve taken up
keeps me and my time from work
face down
the push-broom for earth
keeping stock in grime; the world’s dust clerk
to return here nightly
tart flesh hammer me in
cents for her role
in gold they’d pay for her parts
these interests posed in this way
the ways we cast her
in our play are so crystal clearly different
because the she I’ve waited up for
keeps for me a deluded medicine in consort
face up;
injecting her I love to be you
while busy keeping stock,
A cuckold of sorts.

-February 2004

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