More Piggies

Political, you started out “political”
until you discovered the words “there’s nothing you can do”
but nudge away from the trough
making your own yuk away from the band, unlyrical,
too grounded to think the correspondence it. We sit
outside the gym like no one’s business though desperate
to be both seen and disappeared, the toxicity
of skyscrapers used to ring in your ears but now
you build them in notes, an algorithmic composer without care, teachers
saying hard work. Sorry—”hard work”; but you see it
just above the paper, don’t you? The graffiti? You loosen
reading the old signs that were here. Where are they now?
All over the place, spread more if the exam was seen
as “exam.” Guys—were we a good band? Because we had fans, obviously,
and filler. But did we do anything we were supposed to?
Or was that why you were asked to leave? I can’t find myself this evening
between too many numbers—for instance, “2” and “two”
don’t add up to a four piece; your blueprints
premised on this make your foundations shake: did we bring coats? Reaay ouay tillsay
inay hetay roughtay? So that was the problem with the lyrics!