although...

there is magic in poems,

it is my blood living there

as a dead thing. they are

open to interpretation, but i

know how much this gift

is a poison.

and i say:

as long as none of my legs

will be cut off, i walk the earth

as a man, dressed as a human, i am soul, spirit, earth and fire:

i don't want to be boiled in a

kettle, my essence distilled through

copper tubes by witches in reclining

chairs clapping their hands, nodding

rhythmically with the burbling steam,breathing my earthly life through their spoiled nostrils, humming a 'how nice he suffers' as if i was a frog to end in a fishsoup for degustation.

so, why publish.

i don't want to write poems, i hate all of them for wasting my life , to write instead of kissing, embrace, the sharing of days and nights: how poor.

i write, i die. i have no choice.

is it true?