Like buskers, we linger on the streets telling false fortunes and charming snakes of their cigarettes. We are filthy on the inside with regrets that get no forbearance. In hand, we crack stolen pop-shit music into shards; pieces of Warrant and Madonna and Hootie become deadly Chinese stars in our grip. Passersby unaware we are building a shed of blood, stringing victims from its shoddy framework in the back alley, draining them like gutted pigs. I plan on drowning you, by request, in the contents of their discontent, plan on hearing you scream for an end as I keep releasing your head above the bloodline of society. But first, let us chew the theory of relativity between our teeth and bitch about how bitter it tastes.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published By Apoetelephone 2/09 (Audio poem)