I believe Fame once intended to give birth to a child.
Some accident happened and I was the abortion.
B. O’D.
I look at what i wrote & feel shame rising like the flood my knees are weak & the lamp light's glow flatters my corny poetics they're simplistic & i hate myself no that's going too far with my hand between my legs to keep it warm my secret life these secret lines the waste paper bin i run into the yard & after dark I set a match to watch it burn the zero letter the one before this private alphabet yearning grasses knee-high in fiction cemetaries whips crack & knees bend beneath the weight of imperial leather straps to shave leg hairs off diving into pools & rivers like gunshots into skin & areas on maps there are zones where you're welcome at the very least a god while the people's god waits in wings between the pages of books & in between my legs he truth is my desires my ambitions that stumble on dusty streets at dusk look towards a house where she's waiting wearing starched armour & a look of dulled repressions casting glances at the wilting calendar & wiping down surfaces with hessian cloth a girl i'm seen with on some occasions but do not ride a horse poets shall be known by the way they walk on grass fall to the earth & float up in the sky i hate my self & want to die
