A poem about writing and reading poems, and other meta.

I always headlong stumble
through (epic) poems -
each line-caught stanza
lovely, on it's own;

Together, archipelago-strung,

each one like something sweet,

it lurches and panics

urgent-pressed past my teeth.

and wraps its legs around my ribs

And the next one comes

and claws desperately

and tangles its long fingers

to look in my eyes.

in my hair, slowly
pulls me down open-mouthed
to kiss it; sweet, and drunk.



I think I am entirely the wrong person
to judge the stuff of poets
dead twenty seven years before
I came here, wailing complaints,
and some sixteen more years
until I poetized, myself.

They say women are always autobiographers

That first was probably about a boy

and I want to argue, but

with green eyes? and hands

I can't disagree until I spill

like a farmers', someone

something about being

I thought should've used them

an asex lizard-creature from Mars

to cup my face in

out onto a piece of lined paper

before I even grew into it.

and burn it.