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clawing through bookshelves, you know?
like sleepy drug addled
or nauseous suicide
(the intellectual not the cry for help)
and these postmoderns have indexes spouting not-near-enlightenment but for-its-own-sake and if the two are synonymous
well then maybe cry for help
and scratching, my fingernails grow ragged until bleeding cuticles and a recessed thumb sucker
- to only have nostalgia for these tiny little appendages in my maw!-
but only a taste of blood&metallyblood
the irony to think of robots when "I am man", and "I am first"
enough!
remaining fingertips trace a leathery binding of graphing paper
full of love letters to the world or someone I mistook for it
mistook? godmotherfuckingdamn
pages of 17 year old without magnetic objectivity
if a compass of

^Naivete

< Wlatsome Eros >

vScorn


perhaps then this wouldn't happen
guided safe into a memory feeling for first loves
perhaps a foolish child speaks wiser, perhaps age?
the cynics? stoics? weeping, gnashing of teeth and self flagellation?
erotic ecstasy, hedonism, holy reverence, childlike innocence, heroic optimism, selfless fucking
or are you making love?
and this is masturbation! and this is a moot point!
oh dear sweet nameless object of affection,
when I loved you, I loved you like dictionary definition
some dream and I never mention the softness of your skin
(it is a cliché)
now the color of your eyes, and the softness of your skin
slippery poetry
is very small for worldviews
these are penny haikus, and to know poverty
the pun makes less cents

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