The mobile is now on the moving taxi seat. Speak into it, you eyes. Its Latin ring is seen in the mauve of the taxi seat, much agitated, of much pants comfort, less heart- warmth of yesterday, in more cold of today’s words.
It is in the hot words of wax into a cold syntax of the mobile talk between shoulder and head as the former comes close to sneezing head. Its words are filthy, steeped in religious tunes in the kitschy filmy tradition of the back alley. Its tunes rhyme with the body’s foot tapping.
The head is now leaning tower on motorcycle. Such heads, leaning on shoulders, warm cops in their pockets, their hearts, burning stoves.
Its talk now walks on its feet on road like the unflying bird of the wingless species, its feet tied together in the coop, in a joy ride to market. It will speak in hush from someone’s stomach.