When I write, I ******* words
same with when I paint
or sing
or speak
spurting them out, splashing your overcoat and making you pause to think
ever so briefly, in the space of the breath of a moth
and then flutter by.
Spouting feeling, as I do, is good enough for many
true! it is good enough for me to make a living
and I sell these paintings
as a ******* her body
but insisting I will be a star some day.
I can achieve that, though, only if I stop spouting
and start pushing
I want my feeling
to be a pressure washer
cutting off that suit
and wounding,
and shocking,
and caressing,
and kissing.
I want you to leave different
and to remember.
So for practice, I will spout until I sleep.
Pass a tissue, please.