Kind of Unkind Fat Controller
One of those days when bass blames violin,
he’s eyeballing keys; she’s shaming drums,
snarls ‘hit A Minor now’ in wolf tones and sting,
then in through the door - it comes, it comes
and you’re looking the other at a belly rolling
converted but here’s a hijab’s slipped, strayed
hair from folds - she’s licking her lips, strolling
from out her blazing burning fires. They play
songs of if she did anything expedient today
lament lost principles canned and conveyed,
an abaya hides recent pounds piled on hips,
hocking up a hyena’s laugh in shades of sick,
gauze thrown barbecues to displace critics,
here’s rands for any inventive songs from it
in skimpy piles of seed. First get a lump sugar,
sugar, send out your surveys, capturing souls
from the shanty towns where they mistook her
for something sporting tactics in mouse clicks,
hey, Minnie? Fuck your Thursday coffee gratis
a price too great to pay, yet here we practice
on one of those days filled by tricky shifted
signatures hoofed in six eight. I know, I know
it comes only from graft, from fingers twisted,
from time spent learning quick rhythms flow,
for improper dancing in unsuitable clothes,
beneath a kind of unkind fat controller’s nose.
No comments:
Post a Comment