For the Personals

                 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.