What I Was Saying to Peeping Tom of Coventry
by Pablo Larios

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What I was saying to peeping Tom of Coventry, But it comes out. The glint of "something, somewhere" has quit itself, and here it is in its approach, reverse doppler, sloughing off its eye-room. It's close now so you can turn your back to it, forget the others, look down and squeeze the garb and the tics and the knobs. See here, you won't be cozy anymore. Fondle your teeth. It is close now.

So consider with terror the shape of your navel, or how you might take to the clothes you'd assemble, if in a light-box, or pinned along gravity's mediation of an arc, if you were a curtain, or a scrape in a virtual throat. Set in such relief, how you could be that naked woman, or the king gaming everything for her, her romp down the street. It's rather the same. It might be tragic, it is so close you can identify, but in any case you take the lower road and here you are, Tom, squinting out from the waterhole, you and your belly, sweaty gums, your loose watch and recurrent fits. Trying but you can't walk at first. The fits recur. Can't quite come to it but it is your whole time hanging there, going on with things and you can't see their heads. Your whole time, no? City's all cottonmouth, so free now you lift your finger and get on with the facts:

The point of the spectacle isn't the harlot -- plenty of those around -- but the fact of her being on a horse, and not on a fly or a man or a deer. The brute got, you say, the best take on the matter and we should surely revisit his claim, it was so close. His account's underfoot now though he's been snuffed out with the other fauna.

Legs splinted over the mane, her hair, the whole show, how you were jealous of his being-there, we all saw you. No need to explain since it was you caught with your pants down, Tom, peeled breeches, street in half, heads bob up with fluorescent lights. You were left standing there, pantomiming, meaning After All the To-do What's Left of the Human Comedy?

No one told you, boy, Here is no semaphore, and in spite of the flailing of your arms your knees will rattle, your patellae will split open like caps. And your leg brace will sediment like rebar, as if in the concrete of a building in a tremor in deep July and so it flakes and undoes its own scaffolding.

What I was saying to peeping Tom of Coventry, You're full of nonsense Tom but through some accident you walk. Step forward but we're not sure quite which one you are, the sun gets us, but it's here now, the horse, it's in front of you we can feel its spit. So face all of them and wag your thumb, we've seen it before, clang out, and when you turn your teeth into acrostics, we'll close our eyes, we sure can't do anything.