Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Impotent Life

Do not sing an elegy
to me you little flea –
you speck of nothingness –
you bit of dreck
evincing no one's interest
or affection –
strangled circumspection
of the soul.

Do not make me jump
into your vast undreaming
hole, you mole.
I shall not deal
with you today, in any way,
beneath, around,
above you. Go away
until I have to love you.


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