Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The poet in swampy areas
(insufficient source text to continue
only a new course of tin)
desiring a poem change
- that is the desire for illness and the moment before -
murmurs: The word is not my heart. It never was.
Traversing the land of good stories
I’ve found a miniature city for my heart.
The word can go to gods
when little buildings inside my ribcage fall apart.
Old age never fails to surprise.
Be it known to the world
that I’m the greatest detester of Literature.
In comes the giant lizard rustling:
All is Art, all is an art of allying:
I see and pain;
within my part of sorrow
I pant and paint, rant
and a haphazard train of thought enters the picture
without constraints or remonstration.
Here you can change a word, there a wording
but nothing can be rewritten as a rule.
It’s too late every time I try.
Writing is a mother. The primary source for the dunces.
You cannot change a mother or can you, can?
A mouthful of hysterical giggles, a handful of coppers.
A number of silence’s original works,
a few of which can be found in English,
poems from some distance.
No one should tell you
that these pages contain as well
laughing eyes and a loftier brother
who is searching for the obvious in my ear
but never whispers: All is so dreadfully second-rate.
Novelty of opening a laugh
an eternal one