Poetics

how to drive a tank and other tips for the modern gentleman

first time i came across a beluga whale i had no hands,
found myself thinking about harold pinter, whale was thinking about
the dreams of other fish,
so caught up in the funk that it thought i was six, again.

‘towards nothing’ — what shall we say, are the remains
of the day?

my white whale is a recurring dream,
i will not see doctors,
doctors will see me.

somedays the extremities are cold —
two shots of coffee and i’m ready to go.

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