knapsack full of a thousand drugged angels slung over my shoulder


i have a
somewhat peculiar fear for a man,
that of sex =)

	of being lusted
by a thousand(three0/s) little girls
with wet fingers
and dirty hearts,

	of being loved for
nothing: (=

i am the escape artist;
feasting on pills+
chasing their cheapthrills through
dark alleys;
searching for all the
//not-obvious// )in(exits and (out)entrances:

i long to be the silent superstar=
for everyone to know my words(purposefullymisalignedletters)
my feelings(purposefullymalignedheartbeats),
while the important details of Me
remain perfectly;
unhurriedly nameless:

	i have a fear of friends and enemies;
	“of being too powerless for faith and too powerful for belief;
	“of being stuck between

					{the rock;}
			[the hard place;]
				and me.
””
i seek the not-confrontational(yet-insanely-paradoxical) life as

	a lightning rod
stuck in the
middle of a
sunny meadow,

	a powderkeg
without a fuse,

	a poet
who stands alone at the altar,
forever to wait
on his muse:

i too often have a somewhat peculiar
	fear of 

							myself;
							(alwaysonthewrongsideoftheroad)
{{who might one day
catch}}
							himself
							+hisself+allvariationsofHe

desiring
the unholy
melancholy,
the sickly lust,
^^the^^self-righteous^^pronoun that is		I
							*tendstoboast*
unto the ashes,
unto the dust,

for which i would not trade
all the fascist
vagina(OOOOOOOOOOOO linedup against thewall ratherneatly)
nor the obscenely
moral bliss,

and i have a fear
of fearing everything,

a fear of being too free,

of being invited to play God
in the theater of the open sea,

where all the fishes are said
to seek the open-mouthed kiss,
and all the fairies are said
to speak of

my
somewhat peculiar fear
for a man,

that of taking the
profound risk

of being adored by
A Single Woman
who
should rid me of these fears

and appease me until
i see fit to open
my
anonymous
mouth+
my
fat
heart+
these sickly imaginary poems
that practically
write
themselves so that

in time					(better never than

late)

my secrets
become
unfashionable

to dirty little orphan whores			[{always hiding backstage or
and fishes and				[{running naked through my hotel
						[{floors
fairies and

my waking hours are
stewed in a fear that they (and i)
will
no longer
rely on the pornography of
curved words
to satisfy their intrigue




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