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i like it when the faucet is on.
it’s like you think you control it but it controls you.
first it’s just water coming out,
not even hot,
not even cold,
just tepid,
just luke warm.
but then it turns blue,
and sends out music,
quiet at first,
new agey
and cagey,
but then it turns dark blue,
and there is an orchestra with you in the room,
mozart on your shoulder conducting the wind thru the trees,
as the birds start flying towards your windows,
smashing into glass,
the music stops and out pours the souls of the old masters,
rainbows in 3D, and blood and whatever souls look like coming out of a faucet.
fast and furious and red and black,
like they can’t get out fast enough.
like they’re coming from someplace unbearable
into a waiting room
or purgatory.
it’s too much,
you turn the faucet off,
but it keeps pouring,
it turns into a fine pink liquid,
steam rising from the bottom of the sink to reveal it’s heat,
and music starts again.
this time it’s sitars and trumpets-
and detuned bass drums soaked in reverb.
a calm voice both alien and familiar
instructs you
to write it down
and send it off,
how it is received.
for you are only a vehicle of the universe,
and witness of the faucet
which is just dripping now,
orange rust and gold
dripping into something without a bottom,
dripping in the infinite,
like lips trying to kiss in the dark.

by josepharthur


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