11 January 2001
oft
oft
oft oft
it behoves
them
to racist me
and
I feel like the sound of a harp
oft
I resonate, when I’m
a warehouse at night
packed with
people
oft have I travelled
in realms
oft
arrived
in in in
a wide expanse
where they racist me
with thoughts
knuckle me
figuratively
oft
oft, often
the stars in their nipples
abrade me
I have
no rancour
often, misconceived
literally
their engagement
with buffaloes
as in my heaving
brain, they should not
leave me alone
oft have I
disremembered
the past ambiguities
trials and trialled
into the haze
oft my head turned
to your mouth
but you said nothing
I had to wonder
if there were wisdom
wisdom at any time
at least in
this epoch
on a drifting door over the emptiness
of sea mongering
scenes, don’t make a scene
oft repeated
the calamity of slurs
forced to eat grass
or uncooked grain,
bedazzled
by their turpitude
I’m the Nebuchadnezzar of now
the graceless of
daze