Poetry Is A Cruel Public Drug

I hear the development singing. The oats are red and taste of nudity. The flavor of the lobster is gleefully complete in its fuselage. The guides collide in the dark of the cave and find themselves bewildered by the square root of a stray cat. Can anything be truly savored in sleep? The brocade root has never sponsored a juxtaposition like this. I’m polished, towered, and propelled by a language whose gravity smells of opium. I garden cartwheels and leave the handsprings to the administrators. It takes a good break to stir a rub into earth. I consider the hotel and hold it in my hand like a moral. I heave into words this grease that I need to fill a thought with alcoholism. I usurp everything I see that isn’t already detonated by morning. The supposition that something like wisdom exists is a door to our garments. I sit and sputter on the ground hanging bubbles from an emotional velvet. If tuna is my pepper than what is my pepper but a tuna disguised as a saltwater grammar? The gardenias increase my sighs. I have an attitude like a thermostat. I compose some water and play a mean flute. I agree to the fickleness of vowels and hem my phantom cuticles with a ghostly luster. Poetry is a cruel public drug. It needs to be constantly entertained by piles of laundry and beatnik vibrations. Let these waves flow over you. I’m laughing at the paint in my bag. The gravy is anchored in iambic dots like a beautiful fire escape on 14th street. It’s time that time trumpeted its minutes with a horn of golden thunder. Nature is prominent in my reflections and when I walk I can hear the clatter of a million plates. I thrive on the sidewalks of Montmartre. The moonlight is smeared in the silent ovation of stars. I give this stab at meaning a little time to get unmuzzled and find its lips. The tongue is a monstrous organ. Think of what it can do when the lights go out and things turn green in the mind. I urge you to consider entomology as a profession. Let me unpack this thought in the quiet of my room, which is just now turning milky with mohair. This is what I like to do when I can’t afford to do anything else. Which is climbing into me like rubber. I’m engorged. I’m pointing at something in the distance. I see planets. And triangles. And twinkle in my scruples like an instinct.