If poetry is settling, what is a stirring spoon in the muddied water?
There is no metaphor that sits at the bottom of the glass that may leap up with a momentum of a frog and catch you mid-throat before you swallow your indigestion once again, and mold into yet another insoluble
Till the new war opens its mouth and the mercenary irrigates the bomb, the glass will became fertile again with the notion of end as with blood.
We put out bullets like bubbles It is the joy of erasure, Aren’t you proud yet? My mother’s songs are like plastic bags, Her hair are orange creepers shrouding the ceiling fan. Today I need a glove, I am only my hands Touch me, open up my chessboard The boxes are a moonlit night 64 Circles. “Chew your food!” My chest swallows up the buttons like a toothless vagabond, But I retch and let a tunnel come out of my gut People scream in delight, O Lord Flight —Every house’s household deity (They know that salvation is a cabin of ministers) But I’m a trite, an imitation of this god, A red dot That sits between your legs.