28
Beef In The Morning

Must I had
eaten beef
in the morning
as a child,
awaking from
the making of senses,
those
great nocturnal downloads
kicking
my habit of imagination
for daily upgrades?

Must I had
sausage first thing,
scrambled with eggs?
By the time
I was seventeen,
and listening to
The Smoke,
the sausage of 1983
would try and
flush itself
down the drain,
somewhere around my medulla,
beating,
pounding,
yet only manifesting
the sound of a sponge.
An angioplasty, naturally,
survivalistically,
stressfully.

Politicians
and people who eat politicians
have double chins,
join them
for beef in the morning.

My arteries
think otherwise.
Now it is
the wine granted clemency
in order to keep the populous impercipient
that I choose
to lose
my identity
in the trends and the haircuts
of the City.



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