Marc Bolan, you’re wrong!
life’s a drawl and i can hear it in a raspy voice:
"There is a town with a plague that has dissociative identity disorder"
Children call it cotton mouth, adults call it diesel fuel exhaust
and elders call it chaff-age; it eats their inner thighs raw.
Marc Bolan, look and see!
there is a town that i loath.
Stickiness is a ball and chain for a heat-struck daze.
The sun burns the back of my ears and
prescient bone dry heat is a pesky thief.
Marc Bolan, hide and seek!
there is a town with a fog of fine ground dust.
The residents breath desiccation and
there is no antidote to cure a slow homa drawl.
so, whale come ho-em darling.
(i think this poem is really shitty because it is way too choppy. if anyone has any ideas on how to fix the rhythm of this poem or how to make it smoother, then please tell me)
"the sun makes me stare." i really like this, it isn't shitty.
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