And, they all start with “and”
I’ve discovered this little man tapping old type-writer keys in four part rhythm where my heart should be,
and he’s typing all the things I say to you in the darkness,
and I don’t know that he’s ever felt anything,
maybe moist.
What I’m saying is that I have this habit of habiting things that aren’t.
And, and, and they all start with “and”
And that doesn’t mean a thing to you.
Poets have stolen all the medals from the Olympics,
in the night,
while we all were sleeping.
Hunt them down, every one.
DO NOT approach them if they are awake,
for the fruitlessly flowing phrases of fragrant fiction fuel fragmented feelings,
designed for distraction, disintegrating defenses desperately dropped in drop deep dredges
And you too will babble endlessly about the meaninglessness of it all, or perhaps the meaningfulness of it all, or the friction of it all, but all of it, all of it, flowing from you like a sputtering spigot.
And god, God help you if that stream starts.
The poets must die,
be very afraid of the poets.
