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Click hereSometimes I just stay and write
and then the stupor of the afternoon
lays waste My mind
a floating strange state,
where the edges of reality
and dreams
blur
regeneration, sushi sashimi
sharp edges, and oozing lines
that taste sensation,
like flowerbuds
popping in My mouth
taste that cry and that guttural desire
As the movements of the sharp steel
mesmerize
like strokes of a paintbrush
or strokes, no - the stokes
of a pen.
Who writes and who acts
who is the better and who will claim
I know in the end the watcher does not
but may the writer?