poem #40

hunched back spine horseshoe posture snaps vertebraes

wrists bent arched at forty degrees suctioned over black and white square keys

fully bulbous beer bloated sack of weight resting over weary thighs

skin wrinkled in between cracks in between veins that weren’t there before

fuck you for reading this

thank you for not reading this

please don’t not read this again

sit in square position don’t call it indian style don’t admit to not shifting out of it for 36 hours

add four hours of sleep, make forty beats your resting heart rate, divide nothing

take pleasure in word play, play yourself until violin strings tear until lungs wheeze from parliaments

from government sanctioned arthritis, drug catharsis in white boxes shaped perfectly for streamlined coffin

if poetry is the phenomenology of the soul, then self-hatred underscores the myth of self and creates vortex of lost couplets

none of this makes sense

all of this means nothing

mean something sense of this

arrange complex structure without foundation to confuse climbers, cause chaos and crash crash crash tweak

she did this to me.

i did this to she.

we killed each other.

if poetry wasn’t dark, poetry wouldn’t be alive.

poets would have nowhere to hide onstage

sewers would overflow.

it’s better to scatter words onto blog, into air than confess, than to spew sickness into ears, minds of concerned hearts

better than speaking english

better than speaking

better than

this is not finished

there is no end

continue fucking yourself

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