We all shared a fantasy
about college walls
under the scent of adolescent penis,
bleeding profusely in the color of red
forming the sickle-hammer flag.
Of a giant knowledge tree,
leaves were rolled in paper–I could hear the trees
screaming– burnt at the crushed, twisted edges
while our hearts flew into palpitations,,
each fag produced a ideational obeisance
of which we knew little.
Or a much more,
to rebel and destroy,
even the bell the rings regularly,
invariably, making me salivate,
but nevertheless, an absence of hierarchy.
And like school children
we would walk out of classes
or sulk in corners.
But what kept us together
was a silent yet intelligent voice
which kept screaming
It begins with knowing,
And knowing too much;
like going to a school
And then a college,
Reading thick books
And talking about writing all the time.
But I don’t know if people talk
Of this disease
that poets endure
somewhere in the mid-fifties,
where every word, every word
seems like a suave hand shake,
And you stop playing dirty
And disgusting; mining and drilling
Making larger and larger empty holes.
Where to talk
How to talk
Where a comma begins,
And your career ends.
It all is numbers;
A bigger scare than your fifth grade maths teacher
You slip into your pajamas, listen to lullaby
And sleep at 9. While she knocks and knocks
Until her hand fades away.
You wake up to find
An old memory
Of knocking and you think it was fucking
You strip them naked, parade them and
Make clowns, set up tents, and a whole fucking
“Something is amiss”
And you continue sleeping
Until you fall dead.