walls sweating, (touch)stones weathered
like rotten guts that coax a co-motion of flies

thru the cold,

and the rich and the rank and the relay,

pale feet wear scars on the concrete,

the roar that stirs under the stars

the endless buzzing—


her eyes feel undecided

trying to work out

whether or not

it’s worth trusting in

and the paint’s thin enough

to show silver peaking

and wildflowers that cut

deep into her sides

inside it lies


and I want to drown

in its unknown depths.


the walls are sweating
falling forwards
sands of time or
a leaky pipe dissolving the plaster

a leaky nose
and so many noises run

motion clutters the frame
for a second
interstitial velocities
interstitial seconds of velocity
interstitial moments of inner motion

sounds move parallel to trains
voices weave in and out
voices winding through the signs
they sing and play guitar through a tiny little amp
and the sound bounces of the walls and the posters and
trips the man late to his train
he has work on main street
and he’s late

the walls are sweating
the paint peels off of the walls
pieces of paint curling like a dirty finger
hairy walls
hairy air
hairy floor

the walls are sweating
pimples and cc
curling like a dirty finger
hidden in the light

people who inspire you to dream

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