Bob sings the freedom once more as
I lite up a spliff
choke on the cold ashes behind
my front teeth and feel the cold
gray gritty mud turn to cold cream
in my esophagus moisturizing my lungs
sliding, trickling, rubbing my ky-belly
like Paris in the springtime at night
Do you want to parler un peu de français
she asks in the fuzzy green electronic night
while her française warms my mouth
my ears scream and roar as the alien crawls
on the bed
like she knows what to do
does she know how to do?
silk, warm silk
hot silk
