Is It Coffee In The Blood


I don't understand what the hell's going on,
the pressure boils over and makes spoken song.
Something has struck at the side of my mind.
Now I know why a poet is found

distracting this pressure with basic desire
rebuilding the dam using sexual power.
Tonight I could break, tonight I could die,
tonight is when I can no longer ask why.

But what is this need that impels me to write
what is this need I find I must fight?
Why must I wander, lost and alone,
why must I wander, and verbally roam?

image: po

Dylan Harris
84-85

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop
all
publish

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