The UK government is paying for my silence, because at the end of the day reflecting into other realities, I’ve inherited a lad, broken may he be.
Here he sits on treasure he got collected for him by the dragon. His sense organs are satiated by the dragon’s gifts. All he has to do is carve out the pound of flesh nearest his heart, in the shape of what he wants. It’s true satisfaction for him, to sink into the systems’ cockpit and change dials. Imagine that. That is dangerous, to talk about “true satisfaction.” That’s a very real danger, I think.
I also “think”, that poetry is very dangerous. When you mean it, and you look back on it as you write it, and it’s no good! That is awful torture. Scary-dangerous, because like torture, you might not really escape alive, and when words are done with you, they heap your anonymous body on the pile.
Bad poetry hurts like broken black magic. Harsh words, and horrible ways with words, affect me physically. This is all written harshly. I write harshly because it stings, and I associate the feeling with cleaning, antiseptic chemicals on the wound of the fact of my life.
Inside my heart. It’s all a choice. A “freedom”.
I’ll speak of a very real dragon without fear, but pleasure of the senses, I regard with serious fear.
What does any of this matter now that I’ve expressed it? It’s like a relic now. I can pop it into my pocket and keep going on.
Nobody knows why we live.
The Humble Rock Dove 