Sign
A
corner of air
A
banjo of time
The
smell of a death-rattle
The
mind of insomnia
Running
through my sleep
A
calotte of nape
Cut
off at the neck
An
isle of wonder
Reaching
seven skies
Hacked
down in terra
A
stem of shedded skin
A
tamp on my pipe
A
skull in the works
The
majority fool
In
a matchbox kiss
A
breath of hair
The
width of breadth
Cuts
out a stop
On
pizzicato openers
Signalling
wind
Dew
of drops
Drizzle
a placemat
On
an abandoned sane
Of
musk-eyed winkles
Beckoning
see, saw
To
syringe the limbs
Of rotting meat
What is I?
One is I. Alone is one.
Obtuse. Selfish
As a pronoun, I. The me of
this
Peculiar consideration. In
connection:
Individual; stratified. Am.
Therefore,
When commenting upon my...
Inspiration
Eyes shrug lidlessly.
Where? We know where:
The eighteenth brumaire,
strikes dumb, blows
Apart; but when the latter
don’t-they-know-its
Impart that that’s what
they needed emotionally,
One but thinks, but who are
they? The Is of this
World, which cross the
dots; tease the eyes
Til all is not lost;
jump-started, through
Time. I founded my sanction
in Kurt Cobain,
Perhaps; this burial of the
dead already living.
It is of course Tom that
teaches this I. The T, the I,
The T again. Amongst them, amongst them. I’m not.
To be sure. The question
begging: what is I?
To Kitty Pryde
Murmeyed,
Beckst
thing since, and
I’d
Poeteyes
about this,
Pouties
– innies and
Outies
– indies,
In
these: pop
Music’s
Heart
Still
beats,
Really.
In genie,
Of
eeny,
Meeny,
Miny
mo,
No,
Mojo,
Tryst
Tress
An
idol
I
dun-
no.
