A pen bent to resemble a question mark leaks
a hesitating mildew, a stuttering yellow,
the ink of cream that subsumes paper
with the knowledge that the written word
is just that. A dizzy dream. Breaking off
a slice of bark lazing away, ashamed,
that it has not been repurposed,
the essence of shaming rears its pighead,
snout smeared with paint fluid jamming
colours the pen wouldn’t dream of.
The colours are off-
world I think, tracing a glory
that does not blaze. A grimmer
unreality. Unreal city. My cities
all dull, lost, dull, dull, lost.
The age of locusts charms the haunted
man in a haunted flat since houses
went out of style. These are my times.
The mirror creamier than ever
blankets image into ghostliness.
What is a cucumber or a melon
except a euphemism? What is
a tryst? There’s a drummer.
There’s a drum. Do you beat it?
I spat out a tooth. What are
the ramifications of toothlessness?
All I know is that I am a coin,
a fountain coin the water the fountain
the sound the splash the wish
the rainbow the gradient and
the granter.