why, i am writing non-stop

poems.


but i want to watch porn in an ancient city
soak myself in the dust of its old bones

stop writing! that's a direct order
i gate myself to,

but i wont.  i am flowers
and rain today, smell like salt
if it smelt like old linen, and
after these words are written

i will be the paramount,
the neighbour,
the swan i
have always feared

its unfriendly, its orange tinge beak,
its pique of black feathers, its envelope
of white where white might peek out from.

i am fearful of that bird,
its a hack,
im a hack,

a filthy clone on the chameleons
bed almost a blanket but more
the socks bored from soaking
in the need to bleed my feet.

more the blood than the dried
mistletoe i exchanged for my
big one, well

now i know not to dangle feet over
the sky.