I don't love you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or you
or them
or them  or them  or them  or them  or them  or them  or them  or them  or      them  or them  or them  or them



where's the intimacy gone when I **** nowadays?

I knock my head against my head
in the grey hole with my head in a wall

and then I remember steve roggenbuck telling me to market the moon
and that walt whitman existed and he smelled his armpits and rejoiced
and then I have to say I am a poet, I am not bound

to be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poetto be a poet

"MAN WALT WHITMAN WOULD APPRECIATE THIS"

to
that
head against head

I lay spread out on 
My local shingle beach
Letting the pebbles 
Sift through my fingers
I consider the myriad
Shapes and forms they take.
The varying rust
Charcoal grey and mustard shades

I set myself a mission
In the multitudes
That the sea brings to my feet
I will find amongst the 
Copious cobbles
The ultimate pebble
Perfect and pleasingly
Quirky or smooth.

I become so absorbed by 
This sifting sorting 
Comforting process 
A simple quest
I forget myself
And my proximity to the waves 
Until i am splashed 
And soaked and 
Have to vow to take up
This valiant quest 
Another day.

Until then I have taken 
Home a few shortlisted
Candidates
And made a promise to stand up when
The winner is found
And make a little trumpet
Fanfare sound
And hold the stone aloft!

Starvation feels like recovery
And food feels like relapse

Nourished, full stomach;
Comfort for my dancing tongue.
Feeling satisfied.