a poem for un

sitting in the bowel of my poem
waiting so watery to get
pushed out,
and reinvent the
word and to fly.

to fly in the face of unknown
and squander my sense of
everything on a single satire
unravelled like fettucini
on the skewering fork.

to fuck with unknown and say
something just to say it.
and let them beat me down with
little mounds of 1's like
squirming maggots racing the
hare.

they finish first. there is no
race though, only end lines.

like the way cool swerve of
fuck you
glaringly self-evident, the
way my eye-lids droop off my face
in search of a better one
and my teeth ache cancerous as
my tongue swishes from side to
side.

in my mouth, i think, are words
like hurricanes and traffic lights
searching for their place in
amongst the others
and waiting impatient, waiting
with soggy shoes, squelching
down the hall to find
a fickle mate and
fuck me down,
fuck me out,
fuck me in, and
spit me out.

that like gatorade falling out
the bottle spilling out the
spiral elevator of my mouth,
zigging and zagging about the
crystal monolith of time;
glints light, crayon pastel,
from the shadows bent (belief)
spit from out my eyes.

and all faces loom out with
fucked dissent,
lurch like cannon-balls
into the unthought ocean.
screams the dark
"the light has caught me,
i am caught"

so drown me, dear betrayer
i have only words
and you, you would sell them
by the pound.