i don't hate you
because of dandelions.
something hard kind of melted down
and i lost what i knew
which is bliss
as opposed to idiot talks of enlightenment
and knowing by dumb chefs
and poor architects
struggling with drug addiction
while having a son in college who plays the drums
from a divorce three decades before.

can't manage it after curfew.
i need a glass of wine.
something finer would be appreciated,
white curtain lace draped in smokey moonlight
and an operatic song, i would protest
because my body has been ransacked
by the worst rapists i know,
old tricks of apothecary draped in white health
but without the designs of the Hippocratic oath
for they professed to help the mind
when they destroyed my body too.

i might dogfight memories of Artaud
so as for your sake.
you don't want to hear.
i mean, i wouldn't care or mind
telling you about his 127 electrical shocks
and how he dot dot dot.
old murder got perfected
with him locked in a white tile closet
smearing charcoal on rough paper
in the shape of a scream.

i'd scream too but they pulled that atlas from my lips
when the world of pain featured my explorations
in common lousy heartbreak with nails poking my feet.
i'm not sorry for myself so you understand,
just currently abominable.
i need to dance
and buy somebody flowers goddamnit and goddamn this.