Immaculate. It’s what you do. Quite a record, tried and true.

You can’t see it, don’t believe it, but I”m here to say it’s you.

You would never ever say it; you’d just mutter, “I obey.”

Yet the ins and outs you go through, put it out there on display.


Immaculate, it just ain’t me. Tainted, tarnished, burnished me.

Unclean always is my plea. If a place, I’d furnished be

with castoffs, seconds. Well, not really, that’s a second thought that’s silly.

Nice things, nice me, all around, and not opposed to something frilly!

[Oh, and another thing. I haven’t been sleeping that well, so I tried a few things yesterday and they came back to bite me and I did sleep, but horribly as inside a curse, and the only dream-like thing that I remember is being asked or expected somehow to place two songs in their proper places. The songs were digits, like numbers but more than numerals, and I was just supposed to place them. Properly. And then . . . I swear I woke up between 2 and 3 a.m. in a hot sweat and gasping for some sort of air and I was singing this song:

Yeah, there are many versions out there and I remember, clearly, when Sixpence . . . released it, and I bought it, and still have that CD packed away in a hidden box. Don’t ask me why or how it came to be living inside me, dying to get out last night. IHNI]


Immaculate eternally. It’s somewhat more than you than me.

Ever ever what I see. It’s beautiful: just us, then  . . . 3