In The Land of Stuttering Carousels

 you (I accuse)
who are engaged elsewhere:
Where?
In the land of carousels, hot-air balloons and

no returns

inotherwords

in the realm
of nowhere in particular
you torture me
with noblesse oblige.
I stutter, stumble, I do not
recover. I suffer. Nothing more.
Nothing less.
I suffer.

Lower NO Raise NO do Don't Do It Again

 Lower the guard, no!
raise the guard.
My silent scream translates:
fUckerS FucKers fuCKeRs

that is a crude translation.
I juggle piss bags, diaper bags
my hands, a paler shade of white.
My intentions—plagiaristic.
My hopes:
a death secret! Oh yes.
But I know; I know; I know
secretly I know
there is only
one way out
and that way
is the sum
of all sordid things,

all squalid imagings.

Tell me SomeThing I

never thought to know.

The Young Turks

The young Turks
are old jerks.

Sleep Thief

 When you sleep
you keep
your secrets
each discrete.
Your breath
its depth
confounds unspoken

self.

I Will Not Be Rescued

Can you rescue me
from demented outbursts?

My fragile lexicon
is not getting better; it's getting
worse, so much worse.
I do not fully
understand the aesthetic
of the obsessed. I am not yet dead
and yet and yet, I am ready
for the transition: be it brutal, be it gentle.
I conjure a mop ( a map)
that will cleanse me, deface me,
rescue me, oh finally, ah, kindly
from the curse
of continuity.

Saviouress

 If Oskar schindler could save
one thousand Jews,
surely I can save you.

Swan Girl

 Your Boleyn neck
stretched until it could withstand
no further torture.
Like an impossibly long-stemmed
tulip struggling in deep shade,
animal-vegetal metaphors
undid you until death
arrived, bloodless, polite
and without a hint of rancour.