When I am 150 years old, I will be the stringiest thing alive and the children of the village will take wrestling and singing lessons from me.
As soon as I step into a house, it bursts into flames. That's just fine. How to proceed from ruined things is a great aerobic technique for the health of belligerent and infinite vascular ropes of veins.
I have made love in at any number of outdoor places, climbing out of various states of incongruous dress to proud, pale undress. I have never been embarrassed there, nor ashamed.
I am sweating and type with squalorous fingernails. My teeth run away from my terrible mouth. Your roof, I got there, I fucking climbed my breath. I wrote this there and gave it to a creature with a burning head.
I have congress with monsters and devils and they are sweethearts. I put my hummingbird tongue down their throats and we talk about the state of things.
I sucked electricity out of the wall when my heart stopped briefly and my dreams, whenever it is that I sleep, are all about the terrible treasures of the humming seeds that bust forth from my defeated body. The seeds are poems.
All the music I know is being baffled by beauty that is prevented and it syncs in perfect time with the rhythm of what I know to be desire. All the refusal is accompanied by an equal acceptance and you to whom I'm calling and have never met, you know exactly what I mean.
To this end, the world I know is a piano I am kicking out of and these are the sounds as it breaks.
