I think I spend way too much
time hanging around in your
old poems,
Cause somehow
I'm in there,
and who really knows who
you are,
you could've been anybody
and who am I to say?
I'm sick of Earth & coal,
and iron ore,
Even though each bud
grew transcendental petals,
I tried to eat everything
and worst of all,
this limited self consumed,
As the bottom part wriggles
like a cut worm,
unable to repatriate,
It's a nervous avenue
of time beating,
then eating itself,
Alive! ! ! Oh no!
Time bawling and mauling,
don't waste me, burned out lips...
As the gruel of thinking
is so vast...
Gimme me some words to eat! !
such a hunger,
this imaginary poet thing,
a sort of Shakesperian tennis,
(what's betwixt...)
This preparation for dying...
for this inside, forever desiring!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem