a poem for today, 8 April 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of six sentences and its image]
Pouring drive into a page.
It's me, pursuing myself.
As soon as writing, which entails making a liquid flow out of a tube on to a piece of white paper, assumes the significance of copulation, or as soon as walking becomes a symbolic substitute for treading upon the body of mother earth, both writing and walking are stopped because they represent the performance of a forbidden sexual act.
More research is in order.
I've been impotent for years.
We need unjust punishment.
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