can you see across the stream,
the angle of my pen,
the way it squews the letters into
shapes that have gone sour;
can you see the scratch of pen,
the scratch of language,
scratch of the mode this text implies,
momentum this implies.
i once smoked a tube packed with
need and i felt clean -
that is i felt beside myself -
like ecstasy obscuring curtains
and keys and pages of books
into things i can identify with stories
out of our cynical tripping to
scratch hands, make bands;
can you feel the scratching of this suede
against my toes, braided vinyl pushing
leather to the side where i found you
on the sidewall scratching hands,
stealing steez between the rings that make
imprints on your skin.
No comments:
Post a Comment