You're peeking through the barred and blackened end
of a once and former window.

There's two guerillas in a hardly furnished basement
rushing a hit for the phone# folks.

One's on the horn with the famous, begging for hooks
the other's copying more self from a blank,
with a buckknife onto an empty bureau's back.

beside them sits a rather cool sculpture of a hard bucket of blood.
above that hangs a black and white photo of "einstien
growing frustrated over a sink full of dirty dishes."

the floor is littered with neatly traced hands, shown in soft focus
through the beautiful sludge of a couple hundred broke open eggs...
a gorgeous spreading pile of tired little suns.

to the far left of the cell, rest the shells
by a door, cleanly cut, neatly stowed, side by side.
each end set completely in its opposite half,
in its particular pit ,in its original crate.

note: none of these three " good-life" diorama's are ever-touching...

and from the looks of this place
it seems as though they'd had a visitor...

The ghost of landlords present and records past no doubt...
He'd told them that because they were young, escape would eat them alive.
but that they would be able to sing...until they were no longer able to sing...

That is of course on one condition:
that they should still threaten for success at its secret...

and they somehow knew whatever exactly all that had meant...

Then with a rip of a check at the neck
he crept back through the mouth of the phone and was gone.

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