Sleep and Money
Slike like, the like, the likeness
of which there is no like in likelihood
a simile slithers between the bedsheets
like a soft whisper stolen from John Keats
a pastoral revelry out kilter with Now
if you were to go to prosperous Hampstead
they sleep like the interest earned on Sadness
money the bloody stain on the shirt of Saville Row
reddens the eyes and quickens the pulse
as the sleeper in Voltic convulsions
runs after it like Hares stoned on Acid
hopping erratically and priapically
then the revelations of the Poetic
Justice hampered the consummation
the fuck of the numbers, the feel of notes
the jingle of coins, the size of credit cards
For Money liquid in form, is silly and salty
to taste, the thirst sadly unquenched
the desire is forever unsatiable.
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