Can you imagine a poem about mushrooms? What is this thing, that springs from the living? The aroma of destroying. The scent of decay. This is a verse of bacteria. Fermented wound. Molecular spectacle. Plotting a dance without organs.
This stone was part of the rock he was sitting on. The rocks, the trees, the concrete...they absorb everything. I too can feel the vibrations stored in my body.
I remember everything I've eaten. The weather we've had everyday. The movement of my hand here, on this fish. I realized that...I have no desire to go anywhere. Experiences are harmful. Experiences are harmful. So I work the land.
I composed a poem! About sleepless nights. Beyond the petals...and once-fierce wings...the air gasps...as its fading shadow.
I never leave this town. I remember everything. So I try to limit what I see. That's why I never watch movies or TV. Miss Universe.