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overture in c flat

alas, iíve been here before
in this poem i mean
itís a repeat of a thousand others
about me feeling out of place
and left alone
me me me me meeeeee
a cappella

iím normal
i amÖsee, watch
ten fingers
ten toes
synapses properly gapped
all that bullshit and whatnot

a few years have passed and iím in the same boat
growing barnacles
same ill will towards the sea of humanity 
and doubting the thousands of fish in love
really, nothing much has changed
except for a few more books 
a couple more pounds
some twenty-odd mind altering concepts
and a stronger vocabulary
a steady concept focused in creature of habit

one of those Norman Rockwell snap shots
dog included
itís hard sometimes
to look at a girl 
without thinking of marriage kids bills two cars a doorbell and a working fridge 
the dog
random points of excitement 

a smile from across the room
duly noted
a conversation gone on a bit too long
a brush of the hand 
that surge of electric pheromone
coursing through my burnt out olfactory districts
the wonderment at how her eyes catch mine
of seeing her morning face for the first time
of pushing my morning hard-on against her soft warm ass
she pushes back
track number eleven elation
that perfect obscure beat
that hits every note with resonant perfection

over and over and over again
like a great rising crescendo
that always has to come to an end

splayed out like so much anticipated departure
i ask myself if iím the cowbell or the kettledrum
i ask myself if iím the recorder or the flute
i ask myself if iím the vibraphone or the pipe organ 
a simple good time charley bang or 
a swooning undertone that the whole song surrounds?

i can see the end from the moment weíre struck
i can see that i will tire of you within four beats
i can take it or leave it quicker than a spiraling jet
i too can look in a mirror and be in love or be disgusted
walk with a cadence of confidence
saunter in soliloquy

wallow in rifts and 
stomp down bridges
mark time in a company front
let that spotlight shine

let your plume be you
hang it on the line hot shot
let your blood test speak testament
answer to the centrifuge of the methodical pretense
forensic psychology is a thought

pubic hairs in the drain 
lifts of dead skin from the razor
bruises from beats

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