Blue Music Dream

The fantasies of benign things.

There is only one biography, a machine
Covered in dust and other things, the desire to be
Many things at once. How naked
A writer sits in front of a screen
In a room where he always sees the need
To draw curtains, the light too much. Books
He owns have their own light, it
(copied enjambment) is this kind of light he
Has not learnt to keep out. Yes, bring in
Dead people into your house,
Let them watch as a prude learns to masturbate
From a manual. What gets him going? Lopsided organs.
He is not moving (unmoving), not writing either,
Simply the desires to do things,
The fantasies of benign things. This here,
Everything is a prologue. He can take
Situations from one work to another
And no fairy queen will notice. He says,
Fuck the conceptualist. What he needs
Are breadcrumbs on a straight line
Like the nipples of an old bitch.

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