Note to shelf: Set this iron pan on you.
Hungry: Hell as I may already be.
Then shut the kitchen, none of
it food, ‘these tomatoes’ first said my soul, then I knew urge
from urge. It was

Gonna rain. Need soon the steel spoon,
patters at the roof now. When I broke my scalp
—returns, returns— against the faucet all that
beautiful water spilling out.






















A fuel




Orange cylinders make a fuel on the hillside.
Giant-mother must be gathering and mating yellow fuels.
Wild onions attain to the thin purple flower

set with white lines. I see that
a dirty thick wind has come. It tears a man up by the roots
and hurls him into the layer of nude chimes.

Inside his cortex before
grew a white mushroom called
simple mushroom. Fuel stock.

And the hairs that clot his lather
nest in the drain when they catch together
like a fuel developing bitter in the sun.

It takes shape, my god.
It takes shape.
You’ll be in what you wear.

Deep fruit of the carnivorous man,
welp him again like you did before.
Welped man.

Glasslike who lives inside every
limb, in the swimming ill dusts
I touch the back of his hand. Vexation.

Yellow grains are beginning to lift their heads;
A bug slips into my finger.
Intense wattage pries at my skull

— quickly I am all peeling off
yet haven’t been touched.
It presses— Me, it pries—

I clench.

but I am rising,
am rising too far up



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