traded places with the burning fire of be it get it find it force it.
Steam and smoke filled my living room.
Cooking happened, smelling human.
Big inflated me fizzled to flat wet latex
and this went on for weeks. Twice.
Puff and huff and blow yourself up
until space is filled with redundant blind and bloated I.
You’ll see yourself,
throne claimed, crown crowning.
The royal you,
two letters forehead-carved with Descartes’ knife
It’s hopeless and you know it. You’ve always known.
Be sick of yourself.
Simply stop, remove face, be unfilled.
Hold everything that’s thought, felt, purportedly known
in one hand.
Tattoo the other: ‘What’s true?’
Sit with this hand and on the other hand.
Walk with it,
shit piss eat with it.
Sleep dream writhe with it.
Shower with it, shop, run, drive with it.
Make love to this question like a demon from hell,
until the letters in the black ball float up
‘I know a few true things and me isn’t one of them.’
celebrate your death
and pound in as necessary:
Life is ocean,
and I am water.