wot is this feeling?
this nearly numb pearl
this camphor bobbing at a deserted dock
this slow jagged confusion rush
smooth and dented by habit and jade age
wot is this distance?
these flat echoes
these hands of mine
that move as skyline cranes over a cartoon cityscape
who's words are these?
they come so easily
falling loose as chalk rock
an automated rumble from out a sore smoked throat
dusty
and
all heard before
wot is all this . . . STUFF!
turning like carousels
like gone wind and reproduced clatter
like museum ornaments behind thick fingered glass
like lego
like toys
wot is it
really?
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