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
this is not finished
there is no end
continue fucking yourself