whose many voices sound metallic

a clicking of hollowed, damp carvings -

beads are a track for wheels of plastic

the ones that crisscross empty brain-

plains or along mannish arms, taupe

taffy of thoughts sounding whack

they are important to whom again

maybe to me to me to me to me to

never hear some white noise though

that is what makes my best dreams

and those cheesy wiles all this while

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