It's when he's quiet
he's most likely
to strike, biting himself, a crude form of
rumination *qua* ruination. So says his
'book, ' the same
proclaiming 'mind of an 8-yr-old'
('Me forty-four, ' he rebuts, helpfully) .
Forbidden
to sleep off lazy Sundays and
gray Mondays alike, so as to
Facilitate
his nightly rest and recharge
The steady,
grinding
rhythm of
acceptable behavior, keeping
him alive
enough to wish he were
dead, drug-induced
dreams of
motocross & comfort
c/o a Chinese family, produced &
directed by
*shenkui* & relentless,
tethered masturbation, asleep
as a
log thru the
Sawmill, alerting
all who
Care @
3AM that
all
is well.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem