Friday Night Laundry. 2 Loads and One for Morning

Such Young Nice Boys Such Nice Young Boys

Such young nice boys become the fury

To whom, however, predisposed, these are

Those young nice boys, grow in surpass of their brothers

Though sisters, we sisters, are kept to quite the dainty hands

Of the unbridled strength of the Being, Naïve

Not to be heard but not them to be unknown

There is mission to be clever

Smart is, as only as it does at some point

Towards that sly, that mischief, of words hidden in birth

Are we what separates the tongues of the falsetto remembrance?

A break in pitch, in frequency, to whom laughter results

Is all that remains of the degradation of freckles with wrinkles too

Come soft wrinkles, come hard lines that fissure

We have cut the cables of this imagination

That phantasmal panorama of the bygones of yester

Apparition and opposition seem to engulf that lover

Of wants and begs to womb

I am no mother to these young nice boys

I am no father to these nice young men

Forever I’ll be

Forever To you

Even though I am to you,

That young nice boy who craves the transition of that young nice man