Filipinos who fanboy Nina Simone

Someone’s hurting and not by your hand, not this time, or there. Milieu, well that they teach early on in the special places, breathable air and the lights up, you’ll need a ladder and five Jesuits just / touch. Ask me. Draw wind for it any number of ways, the M alone makes for dreamtime, but just . . . will you look at this, looking as if at six joints with alleyways and bare plumbing and a body, not as any standing for elses, as meaning’s yet another M-sort stretch, one that’s going on seven which assumes you living that long. Pronounce it any number of ways—pounce, for is that not a pop method of methods?—if you ask me, I’ll go for what bounces through all six, taking all of nine minutes, taking more. We’d still call it biting, you and I. Not any half-cake chewing. My flat where you say baby, baby, someone’s purple-crying and your pronoun, it’s “it” is it not? For all purposes, it is a noisy shape of land. Someone’s cooing, and it’s only anywhere near clear as you choke something back, get past that door.