3. Not a Poem Nor Not a Poem

Trapped? Aren’t we then underlying
this frantic small rumbling – oh
come off it now! Laughter
starting here, beautiful piss, white
blossoms – all OK, eternal and
corrosive. Everything fresh – again.
Nothing to reject. Animals die. We do.
There is nothing on order. A frantic grasp, a
head, a mess, won’t all these be that question?

For poetry permits photophobia & delusions.
It is this necessarily: hopeful and churning
bouncing so it grips. Suddenly singing
not damaged, it initiates problems re
petition into children, coral sometimes expressive
all open, sometimes the aesthetics of milk
yeah, yeah, our hearts will be trapped.
I did not call or break – light – fuck! – life
droning, fluffy, ask it if it arrives. It thanks, this time bites.

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