my mom gave me boots for christmas which i haven't yet stopped wearing whenever possible, and my dad just burned his fingers on a soup bowl for me. i am one lucky bastard.
escalator
des droigts du sang,
des petits droigts, du escalier.
glass and brass
it curves
black stripe
down from
top.
check your ticket,
man, here's where it stops
and you get off.
a possible metaphor
for
someone you met going out the door.
kill me kill me kill me ere i leave this glass and brass emporium of stuffs all gently gliding round like swandown on a breeze what?
it's a metaphor. calm the hell down
before i kill you.
(how many organizational intents
ride this poem, class?
stop picking at your labia, clarice,
you're not getting to me
[my delicacy, hold me] *pants*)
*throws fire extinguisher
through plate glass window
as metaphor for the
depressed body*
*rhymes*
*and escalates*
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