No, I don't want to write a sonnet; to self-lock in an octave only clasping a rusty key -volta- leading to another office cubicle efficiently labelled sestet for its six undone quotas waiting coolly for my calculating.
I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman; to unleash words to gather at seams then tear them open like bursting blood cells crowding out of a wound. I do not want to fit flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane, let me stretch the skin taut as sheets so I can feel the redness and gouge underneath.
Clarity glazed the Classical sonata opaque; staves of controlled fantasy so imaginable, like an illogically round orange, sliced in concaves fat with pulp, each ripeness methodically connected by thin breath threads.
This is why we have madness, need it; bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven symphonies, the metallic muscling of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy and unholy, every ****** mess in between
The heart can't suffice by merely inhaling glitter; I can't dare remember the sane pretty sighing of a Petrarchan uttering; canned love, a predictable malaise packaged neatly in a bland tome, most likely beige, with the fashionable odor of bookish age
And so, serif-writing sweetheart please don't ask me to write a sonnet.
too comfortable to tuck my shirt in, I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch