Our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
solicit graffiti until
he needs the land i stand on
I in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange
loose change and a key
ask me
Go ahead, ask me if i care
I got the answer here
I wrote it down somewhere
I've just got to find it.
From the song Coming Up.
1 comment:
hiya.yesss i love her.all thanks to you.
Tell me what you think of this one.I can relate to it terribly.
>> Serpentine
and write mo no.
:)
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