Standing on the kitchens floor,
i was playing the god of bubbles
it was one foamy dream
made of labour and silence,
Not even close to hit
I was the gross beauty
with strong arms and hands
like some beast animal
moving the white mass, with growing rage
and some love
while the hot mass burned my hands back
and the fumes poison me
holding a fight to ignore
the bleeding hands of that exhusted god,
beated human,
pushing to make alive a humbold round soapy bar.
