My building's full of little holes with heads in, staring at the street.
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They sometimes topple forwards, then stick at one another, passing freaks.
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They rarely speak and though I don't feed them--still they keep their double
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(their quadruple) chins. Their garbage bins are emptied each day. By night
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waiting with lights off, their cats out, their wives in-- they're PEEPING!
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They're peeping at the methylated man who spits in a can, spreads his hands
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for silver, pans for gutter gold. He mutters old forgotten songs his father
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taught him, rolls on the floor. He rolls in alcoves, gets caught in
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waterfalls down rotting walls. (He's bored.) My friends applaud, throw
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pennies and wait . . . peeping from the gallery.
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The Gallery
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| The Legendary Pink Dots |
