Washing Machines

 

Take your strange soiled skins
Coated with the dusty ash of daily life
Take your hidden underthings
Wet with excretions and accretions
And carry them in a bursting bag
To the growling devourer

This is the coarse beast who will eat your chrysalis
If only you will salt them with some snow seasoning
If only you will marinate them in blue deterrence
If only you will feed it a dollar; a shining octagon of guilt

Close the abyssal yawning mouth and let your shells confess their sorrows
Hit the button and hear the rumbling promise of a better tomorrow, for
We are the hives who must wash our words a little cleaner
We are the starry nights broken by too much bright and burning colour.

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