In my poet’s legs
To keep my words
From falling off in a dishonest dance routine
Noted among people
Who even served worms
the words stuck like phlegm
in their throats
Dying in the purpose of throne-making
for a self in state of decline,
Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.
Then in death
There is always a radioactivity.
The charged words bump against the glass
Like a moth or a housefly
Like a lover or a businessman
And at last
The mind breaks with its own ambition.