Deliberately scraping each other off like rusted paper

(Who is this man?)

Without the coffee grinds in my mouth I'm just as good as the filter in your jeans, now.

Art is no longer visible without a strong film of tungsten colouring shading over it,

penciling our families into the rusty shadow (air us out for the kids).

Barbed wire barbies like matches, burning and scribbling over

our ten year olds mind (this happened to your husband) but you,

a flame, can not help him and his stimulant of a woman.

Polka dancing is not a big wave of the most important thing

though, as it turns out your mother died last week.

She loved polka dancing.

You can't understand why she left nothing but tapping tap-tap-taps

for your walls in her will, but without your busted up time machine hair,

we can be magic, filtering through filters upon people filtering through filters. 

(It's what we want)

Stand at the podium, leave your stomach outside and your voice will sound as soothing as

cracked pita bread. 

Where's your filter now? 

(I think it's with your mother)

You lose yourself and your footing!

Tumble,

tumble,

down.