Stark ugly
vertiginous
despair
barely standing on the sideway
I’m not a fucking poet
more like a corpse
that is driven around town
in a black and quaint funeral car
only that the engine
responsible for my movements
is fueled by fatal instincts
crazy habits
and unfathomable desires
you’ll see me there
apparently thoughtful
walking like others
distinctly human
but no
I’m the wrong
kind of meat-
purely bored
a spectator
with no command
over a lame
existence.
.
Beyond Language 