the boy with a hole in his stomach, again

The boy with a hole in his stomach, Noe, wound a tuft of wool up, dunking it into hot and cold water alternately to make it into a felt ball. He rolled it around in his hand until he got tired of doing that.
The gray lamb sat next to him and asked him politely to kiss it on the mouth. The boy with a hole in his stomach, Noe, did not see a mouth on the tiny ball of felt, but the gray lamb persisted:

"Make one if you didn't have the foresight to make one already."

The gray lamb nosed at the dirt distractedly. These kind of things happen, of course. "Best to not feel too badly." Noe did not sense that the lamb very much cared about how he was feeling, but he kissed the tiny ball of felt anyhow. With a fecund little pop, the ball of felt opened into a flower, shedding pollen on his nose. He didn't have allergies, so he didn't sneeze. He was slightly grateful for that, but he wondered why the gray lamb asked him to kiss the felt ball. The gray lamb didn't really have a reason probably, and it was walking away into the woods, where it lived. It was dangerous to follow, so Noe placed the flower into the hole of his stomach and sat on the ground until the sun rose.

He didn't stay awake the whole time, but he instantly forgave himself for drifting off. He walked home in the wee hours of the morning, when it was blue and the leaves clicked together delicately with hard frost. Noe was not cold, since he had worn mittens. He did not need to stop for tea, but he began making breakfast the moment he got home as the walk had made him hungry.
He always missed his parents, like most adults who are made into orphans during their 30somethings, but for whatever reason Noe seemed to be thinking about them more at present. He felt a hollow forming in his heart, like usual, but he was disturbed to find no thread of thought that had led him to reminisce like this.

He found himself, once again, without context, which gave little punch to his emotions or actions. He sat on the couch, eating his perfectly runny eggs with toast and jam, deflated.

my poetry is a lot like my eyes

one stares straight ahead and one drifts to the left

if you try to hold a snake
it will wriggle out of your grip

if you move your hands over the snake
as it slides in a direction, it will go nowhere
while moving constantly near you always

trying to always slither away into some dark over there

sucker

do you love me or the memory of me

when you slap theatrically at mosquitoes when they bite your neck or the small of your wrists

and ankles in the grass

Pitching a tent in the wilderness

underneath a wild switchbush full of thorny bramble and hairs of stinging nettle or fiddlehead ferns that are edible but difficult to know how to cook due to unorthodoxy

Oh my god:  leave me alone

have a sandwich when you look at me

don’t tell me a story about sandwiches

don’t say anything to me that you have already said

keep it fresh, keep it fresh

the sandwich do not go to the beach

to the sand

strand, where the beachcombers go to look for gems and shells

from shipwrecked mollusks (the dead, the dead)

eat me by the water in small gulps under the sodden logs and planks full of lichen and barnacle

scratching at naked thighs like a clam on my naked thighs

gore

nose your supple proboscis into my ear and, ductile, make it swim in the folds

the folds

of my brain which are sodden with sex

memory and sex

dreams of the beach and your sandwiches

and the last effigy of your self worth

that you sacrifice at my feet, Raymond Cline.

I don’t hate you because I refuse to hate everyone. I refuse to hate anyone. It isn’t a special designation. Do not become a delusion of grandeur, please. You possess no virtue. You possess no virtues.

Who are you, with no hair, to wear the comb I bought for you with the money I got from the watch you bought the chain you sold your hair for.

IT isn’t enough ever, more is required.

You aren’t what you claim

you aren’t what you declaim

you aren’t what you claim

to be or to possess, that is.

Detritus

I lied when I told you that I ate the bursslees sprouts

unheimlech

don't look away
       look away
       look away

When you were laying in bed I was burning tiny holes in the sheets with a lit cigarette

Hello darlings,
Where are your cavalcades and/or your legions of menfolk who, which know what is there and has happened to amongst things where the other where the other where the other

Indicate the ininfinite possibilities of my personhood until which point you have not got a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing

I am made of 20 peaches
your cast iron skillet is full of grease
Do not eat anything. Eat nothing. Don't eat a thing.
When you look at me, please make every effort to hate me.
Catch a whiff of my hair and hug me from behind.
Let me wear you like a coat.
Drop and give me eighty.
Realize your organ. It pumps blood throughout you.

"engaging in a fantasy" carrot cake
add thyme, fresh ginger, cinnamon

Mercy

mercy is the promise of power unexherted
an inexorability which is not exercised
and maintains supple ligaments in the gentle hand

you
fold your arms sagely and nod at pissants
who live at your discretion and fold
away at your whim

sip a cup of herbal tea and know you can destroy me
but you don't because you love me
but you don't because you're amused
but you don't
and you show me mercy

the mercy of a benevolent creator that could blot me out
with the swiftness of a thumb
as an ant on the pavement
but you don't

you are a lamb who goes carrying thumbscrews in your mouth
weaving blowtorches into your fleece
and crushing flowers under your cloven feet