Humpadori East and West, Twinkle Twinkle
My self's a cursor—a little pulse—
blinking baa baa
black sheep in little bursts.
It's boring here: nothing works
And the tune's a mother.
I begin to flirt
and for a moment, I disappear entirely—
even pulsing's too serious.
Call me Preeti Baby, call me Little Skirt and we'll begin an intermittent slide
into unlikelihood. It's never easy
to be ordinary
so I make myself
into spectacle. I grow weirdly bright and colorful,
glowing red and blue and blue and red.
I can't tell anymore
if you're moving away from me or towards me.
I recognize only two directions: away from me and towards me.
There's a chance we live in both at once.
Call me Little Star in the lurch. There's still a chance
to make a claim for one. Yippie yie yie yea, yippie yie!
There's a chance:
Jab. Jab. Hurry. Hurry. Fut-a-fut.
When someone leaves you in pain, you double up.
When someone leaves you in pain,
you repeat yourself: twin-kle-ah, twink-kle-ah, aah—aah—aah—
You hold the note until it zigzags east and west, west and east, and back again.
You repeat yourself until you lose track
of what is what, drinking smokes and smoking sigrits.
You multiply a single point
into absolute difference
and raga your paranoia like a blinking idiot.
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