Keep me from people
who try to understand.

Tell them that I'm ugly.
Because I am ugly.
Tell them that I'm stupid.
Because I am stupid.
Tell them that I have halitosis.
Because I do have halitosis.
Tell them that I'm going blind.
Because I am going blind.
Tell them that my legs hurt.
Because my legs do hurt.
Tell them I eat dogs
and my **** needs looking at.
That my teeth are rotting in my skull.
and I'm growing hair where
it doesn't normally grow.

But, I have my hands:
wonderfully creative and able to do
so much. My magically strong hands:
powerful and able to hold
so much.
To cradle a baby, or make love
to a women, to bargain a deal, or steal.

I have my hands
and all they can do for me.
To cultivate, operate, ******* with.
Tell them that.

Tell them

that if they want me,

to understand me,

to see the how and for why
I do things,

tell them to come talk to me,

because I really do have halitosis.

Effortlessly, and smooth as a shelled oyster
sloping down a throat's soft corridor,
I allowed myself the sweet migration
of letting it all be as it was meant to be,
simple and complete.

I took in a lung of calm, quiet air and thought,
This is what I was designed to do,
what I am best at.
Nothing feels more real
or more satisfying than this.

A single corrugated shiver rippled up my spine.
From tail to tip it bloomed in a spiral
of agitating sparks, exciting and wild.
Each nerve, projecting in hunger,
fired around the motion
like the equal rays of a dying sun
in one last great solar explosion,
as tiny ****** of sweat flushed my skin.

I wiped myself three times,
lifted my pants and trousers
in one rising movement
and walked away from my floating masterpiece
smiling.

Every small achievement brings me closer
to perfection.
And every small perfection, well,
I hope to enjoy.

A still breeze, and trees
like empty cities.
Fallen leaves on the ground.

Ill pleased and brown,
their crumpled effigies
resound...
...Turn around, turn around.
Right around,
right around.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now.
No sound, no sound, not now, not now.
For the mound of our bodies
no sound
echoes now...

A still breeze and trees grieve
in street cemeteries.

No sound, no sound,
no sound echoes now.