The skin I crawl through when I hear that sound-- that simple sound of voice that hits the string I hold. Skinny little inch that skims the top of my face; who's watching you? Who's watching you now? Do what your skin permits. Do what your sin accepts. I do what I accept. The cover that lifts off at a deadly speed, how tender you think you may become-- how subtle do you think a needle would be? Not so, skinny inch. Skinny skin in a satin cover, with metal spikes-- how do you react? How strange a sound, how strange a thought, how strange a mind may permit! How mischievous and rampant and deserving such a wound would be. So exist before us and be visible to the language we speak. | |
| |
+ + +