In this world
bees have no place to call home
like worms on
the bottom of the bottle
undrunk –
unchewed, desperate for reprieve
though
already dead, wanting for their death
the
significance of sliding down throats
and the
hallucination that follows.
In this world
maps are glued to my eyelids
smelling of
estragon… modifying
awakeness to
mollify awareness
or some
secondary sense, like lust or
bravery or
the inner-ear’s turmoil
at spiraling
– hearing itself ocean.
We have
created the world thus to scream
a miss-happen
sickness which wards desire.