I’m looking for a line in bilious lyric
for this never new age,
to be dirtying the scrubbed fingertips,
the scraped tongue,
with the word germs, the bit of plague
dug up and sleeping in the jar,
to be leaving the crystal traces
on the nice clean sheets.
I took the gravity box and smashed it, and then
slipped in a tongue
while I was giving ma tante a goodbye kiss.
I would be an enemy,
an enemy to the traders
in yer actual ever minted truth;
all those boys (and girls) afeared
of made up words, of the jiggery phrase
that shakes and shits up the family and the poet
who really loves real people
and writes in the hope
of sharing what he really feels.
I’m looking for nothing but, a book
cut up silly ways and gutted
for augury, for pleasure,
for what not, because I want to,
because I can, Son.
I’m looking hard and long
but I can’t see a thing,
I can’t see nothing.