I don't have time for it. The oil's dripping out of the plastic pan into the burner, fire alarm screams in defiance — pushing, pushing the buttons, pushing
and it acts as if I'm
not even there,
buttons to extinguish, buttons
flares in all directions. Tomato splat against the wall, the ketchup drowning a forgotten fry, the microphone is collecting toxic germs.
The song is coughing, the bread is crumbled, the omelet is vegan.
The cheese is unreliable, the comma stinks of muenster, mustard, mixed and blended, an old poem in the corner giving off aroma, rotten, mushrooms are sprouting in a moist forest elsewhere, unconcerned with alphabets, death, ideas and such.
full of phlegm, raindrops encompassing entire towns
on their way down.
Climbing rhymes, digging those rhizomes, protecting no–paragraphs in order to preserve a semblance of poesy.
tattoo of a description of "po' "
on my knee
I'm on my knees
throughout the morning
as I pour tea
execute calligraphy magik
Barbed Wire all around, gaseous fireball
flares upon the skin
tossed in, locked up
by a clown