On The Hole
I’ve seen the future.
It’s an old hole
at the centre of an old record,
because there are none broken
anymore.
Scratched, chewed,
overplayed and overused.
Warped. Like an old wooden door
that always ends up here,
where you will not walk through
anymore.
Put wood in your hole
because this entrenched brown rat
will gnaw, will chew
insides up like that as rattle bones
of a cutter’s hold
that maiden-voyaged
years ago
with shellac groan and does not put in
anymore.
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