under a golden wych elm tree
puffed out like pigeons’ sleeping
breasts
or parachute I would sit
propped
against the trunk and let certain bugs
grow accustomed to me climb all over me
centipedes I’d shove down my pants
went to
hospital – beetle in the ear
and feeling
ants were
feelings I’d never felt except
when
I was hurting myself –
then in a rage I’d thrash
my legs tear leaves dig the soil down to wet and worms and
whether
I knew it or not (I didn’t know it)
rub soil on my
face eat soil –
ask
go
it’s right to and I say
no I wasn’t NUTS only
in spurts
a dick’s a dick but isn’t always orgasming
pain’s
pain but no-one always
hurts
and some people use pain to not hurt me
I use bark aloneness bugs dirt
take weird stock beneath that tree
of mum and my sisters
fare-welling me
but cry
under parachutes I
spurt NUTS
sometimes to stick around
No comments:
Post a Comment