because
whoever loves pays whoever cries brays
and alone alleviates and apprehends.
because whoever digs suffers whoever passes shifts
pitch amnion skips.
because whoever levitates licks whoever harms steeps
suite scrapes seethes.
because whoever flees captures whoever poses spoils
leg layer laurel.
because whoever prevents circumvents whoever seals reveals
cross cubby coxa.
because whoever gropes lies whoever spits pisses
must maize mixes.
because whoever grazes stays whoever closes latches.
there isn’t
anyone that brings you this. a misfortune of honey and bee.
a door that seals any return.
and when it falls when it ricochets.
another sad sheet left white
folded for you in the insecurity.
then this feeble pain that looks for signs
this notch of scent in the concrete.
no one is left.
in the city only specters with a fleshy taste
that cannot sustain this message.
a telegram that pools
in a strange hallway perfume.
you will have to extend this hand towards yourself.
nothing is left
only this damp flare that dilates
a net of patchwork skin.
a bit of oil in the lip’s articulations.
wax stains for the edges of your page.
brr
That each time one is more alone on each side of the face. The prongs of the plug crackle. They make a ziiich while spitting two bursts of power. And that you don’t want to go to any building that you want a dog. But you don’t dare to listen to barking . That they remind you of the light switch from your dwelling. Woof-woof scratching your eyebrow with a cold teaspoon. You open an eyelid and you plead it doesn’t match the other. This vision this bare cloud whose stench sews up your testicles. You want to hear everyone reading poetry. To keep on mocking yourself that you already always take salt baths. From sea With salt from there with fatal salt. With salt just so but you Don’t want. You have never wanted to blow lint from the belly button. And to finish the rest of the soup you have left. And the other eyelid matches: it’s the same: The box full of books and shoes and A Box Full of Books and Shoes. It’s a splinter an eyelash a weight. You don’t dare you don’t want to go to the bathroom. You only want to play pac-man eating play-dough. But in front of a knife a fork a spoon. Brag-Brag-Brag-brag you are the young boy you The invitee the face on the bill that you pay with The one who takes the drinks off the truck the one who drives You the one that prints the dispatch guide. You want to leave You want to interview yourself to not hear yourself talk more nonsense. Stand up for yourself when you can insist on standing up for yourself Untie yourself from this delicate fetal position Unparalyze yourself Exercise the long arm playing some bells But you don’t want to your feet hurt your shoelaces hurt. They don’t make shoelaces like they used to Like they were to stop the blood and tie up the flow It’s that you are the maker il miglior fabbro And you only wait until twelve at night to tell someone I’m Tired I’m hungry and there’s Larkin clearly Larkin’s there who tells you only the young can be alone freely and it doesn’t fit because you are not a Verbal God you are an old cyst that stuffs itself that spreads in your exhausted tear duct And you should emerge from the amnion but you can’t quite. You don’t know how to stretch the fingers you have broken nails you have a broken life and a deflated neck And you want a pity suction a scrape a win Three pronged plugs bother you the color of the flame in the kitchen the distance between each line on the floor tile the tangle of the telephone cord your ankle You don’t look You don’t search for the precipice of the bed Only your legs are there the crumbs and your sheets The hard crumbs comfort your back the smell that your hair gives the blanket . You have yourself cornered curled up in the blades of a blender Waiting for the ice the water the sugar Waiting for someone to come and turn it on You just want them to turn it on AND blend you AND drink you and not furrow their brow and pee you out and have you do something for the hazelnut tree that is dying. But No. The plug. They are the prongs of the plug that don’t go in . It won’t Start . You are there entombed inside the juicer. brrr. cold. alone. The hair with seeds. hard. transparent. Waiting. between the cubes Awaiting twelve at night to tell someone that it is twelve at night.