The mobile The mobile is now on the moving taxi seat.

Speak into it, you eyes, its Latin ring is seen In the mauve of the taxi seat, quite agitated Of much pants comfort, less heart- warmth Of yesterday, in more cold of todayâ s words. It is in the hot words of wax in a cold syntax Of a mobile talk between shoulder and head As the former comes close to a sneezing head. Its words are filthy, steeped in religious tunes In the kitschy filmy tradition of the back alley. Its tunes rhyme with the bodyâ s foot tapping. The head is now leaning tower on motorcycle. Such heads, leaning on shoulders, warm cops In their pockets, their hearts, burning stoves. Its talk now walks on its feet on road A non-flying bird of the wingless, its Together in the coop, in a joy ride to It will speak in hush from someoneâ s like bird feet tied market. stomach.

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