I confess that I’ve been dying of blanderwoot
for as long as I can remember, walking the empty stage
in which the curtains smell like snitterpoop,
and when I look out into the audience all I see
are the faces of guttergnomes, belidians, and children
of the living dead that I grew up with in my neighbourhood.
Am I afraid?
You could say there are times when all I want is to sleepfall
into the latitude and longitude of releasemo,
and crawl back into the cavity of eternal numbblissgo,
far far away from the damn Fungyouso,
who cauterized me here in the first place—
some kind of jokeayoke that keeps getting played
on so many innocentials. . .