Humpadori East and West, Twinkle Twinkle

My self's a cursor—a little pulse—

blinking baa baa

black sheep in little bursts.

It's boring here: nothing works

And the tune's a mother.

I begin to flirt

with disorientation

and for a moment, I disappear entirely—

even pulsing's too serious.

Call me Preeti Baby, call me Little Skirt and we'll begin an intermittent slide

into unlikelihood.  It's never easy

to be ordinary

so I make myself

into spectacle.  I grow weirdly bright and colorful,

glowing red and blue and blue and red.

I can't tell anymore

if you're moving away from me or towards me.

I recognize only two directions: away from me and towards me.

There's a chance we live in both at once.

Call me Little Star in the lurch.  There's still a chance

to make a claim for one.  Yippie yie yie yea, yippie yie!

There's a chance:

Jab.  Jab.  Hurry.  Hurry.  Fut-a-fut.

When someone leaves you in pain, you double up.

When someone leaves you in pain,

you repeat yourself: twin-kle-ah, twink-kle-ah, aah—aah—aah—

You hold the note until it zigzags east and west, west and east, and back again.

You repeat yourself until you lose track

of what is what, drinking smokes and smoking sigrits.

You multiply a single point

into absolute difference

and raga your paranoia like a blinking idiot.