all that is left to us is poetry

physical pulse and poetic pulse combine

a hunger that hopes to reconcile 

avoids articulation

but the feeling we know when struck by deliberate blow

as softly a loving knife comes not from behind 

slits our throat 

and born again because we learned to listen

dared to sweat while running scared to break

the nature of those who must burn to live

     what makes the blood coil inside my chest

     now i want to strike.

     how i am stupid, made dumb by intensity 

     blurry, i don't want things

     i am grabbing at someone, money is falling 

     i am reaching for some image never to be held

     i can't swing without hitting myself 

i yam a mere BLORP
a solid wet blorp under a strangely ringed moon
sloshing over my YOWN sides
(emphatically now-uh)

ariana reines is reaching new heights with poetry
and i am
smacking wetly against the walls of my YOWN

a droopy wet BLORP
child squeezed clay goin
blorp blorp blorp
up jacaranda ave
n sometimes
putt putt putt

I YAM A MERE JEALOUS BLORP
oh my loves
"is this love, now that the first love has died
where there were, like, no impossibilities"

jacaranda pistachio persimmon
fast burning and unknowable
pop pop
and up knuckols crossing
putt putt putt

a wet and jealous blorp
oozing and hoping to double cross cream my body
outsmart my bones

i see you abandoning sense and it is sucessful
but when i do it
will it look as good?