I smell burning lights of neon and blue.
It's Christmas, they say. Inkblots have formed
their own sentences, helping me
write.
In the midst of this slow night,
I swear I am right.
And I pull Kafka from the shelf
because I want to hear him talk.
I am my own vermin, and we can be random
together.
I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I love you.
Shall we dance despite your limbs?
Samba's playing, I am left staring at you
then back at him,
and right back at you, right where you stood
tiptoeing as you reach the topmost corner of the
cupboard.
You know I never hide any can of insecticide, Kafka,
because I get it, you'll wither.
But I love you, Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I'm a bit colorful with a drag of dirt.
I'm a bit Spanish when I shake my hips.
I turn French right before midnight.
I lose sight and might when the clock chimes
two in the afternoon -
I become just by looking at you.
Because I love you Kafka, I say.
I love you.
Kafka.
I.