I can't do drugs like these doctors,
these stone faced professionals,
who take walks in the forrest
like a notch on their belt.
I can't close my eyes like the civilized do
when someplace near them is crying.
Somewhere I heard an old voice say
that our eyes are made for drinking,
that our skin is made for fingernails,
and our tears are meant to sting.
I can't sing when my eyes are open
because of the whirlpool's game.
I can't speak when there's music playing,
but I can scream at the fiery bumblebees
who mistake my ribs for their cage.
Alive, to me, is a word in motion:
our world in motion.
My body emotion
ransacks my neurons
and their electric chair.
I am slain, wide-eyed, at the sight of you breathing;
each wave eroding my shore.