Mellow,/
good riddance,/
no lyrical sides/
their call, heaven/
fall,/
with cigarette word-
lapping,/
boat too close to the wall/
circumcising by verbals done/
up dying,/
Child us a sandbox of sense/
stretching holding/
out on a ghostly hand/
We are the walls/
place Poetry finds acute vivid lining/
verses, our eyes meshing/
hole unclenching/
Killing lectures about it, how dictionarising/
And Le Clézio’s wing alive/
abide/
Taking flight/
~
An entry, presentation, to my own self,
With a beige new paper crusting made,
Enduring benevolent ego for any who
that paper will find..
Entrust my sense showed again
In my 5 minutes on a lilac,
fragile like old Chinese art,
stage
