***
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 fell apart
Old age never fails to
surprise.
Be it known to the world that
I’m the greatest detester of Literature.
In come 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 enter the picture
without constrain 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.
2007 ?
