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And the microphone skips and someone keeps
bumping the turntables. These are fables
for a lesser delta and our Blues weeps
mud. Someone keeps bumping the turntables.
Soon we boy toys will be gone and then they’ll
notice you or me missing. Like scratchy
scratchy DJs or the tarted-up male
of the species. We are far too pretty
not to be worth the worry. There are clues
left in your open mouth, studs. It’s fitting
we should be swallowed. Fitting that our dreams
for a delta bleeds through, in our mouth Blues
bleeds mud and someone – bastard – keeps bumping
the turntables while the microphone screams.
memories of my ghost sista 