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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

Why I Am Not a Poetrist

Too many bodies
in the imagination's



And anyway
I'm not free

so why should I
            that way-



Can you
            give away
as much kindness
as you have?



Or, as the Just Assassin's cruel
calm lies to you
out of love

is it the glove
that looks lovely

aerating the

get the job done?



I dunno I just
signs ma name n
            sails off-

(hear the crippled
down the hall?)



I just
knew you'd be coming!

as would a
wronged youth wait

before making his gift of
                      dead seagulls



Oh longest dive of

eyes glazed over with

rush hours' CAN'T
care as a verb as
an action not 'felt'



She looked across
the street and the tears

(all the narcissus
planted in rows)



Boxy fruit of
what it's like to
"Life Tastes Good"

O where are those San Francisco
where, the frog?

covering all wounds
with wet kisses



            all the women are
            the most beautiful ones
            on the train I
            can't keep my eyes off
            you I
            can't keep my

            acquarium     hooded




the boxcutter
rampage broke out-






like the too-tinged
colors on our
porn-box Who are you
doing this for?



I mean "driven"

like a Hollywood
limo of yourself

Into the catchment