the pot, the poet

it a shark, you say?
we stare at a slide, enlarged, silent.
my hands are cut, and I relay to myself
about wanting to be your air that runs through your system
about not being noticed but being vital to the life you live

in this red darkness, the dead stares back at us with their
fragmented modulated dynamic secession
gui lt and gui tars

my hands are cut
and I want to be your air

sometimes, we will let down these ghosts,
the wild, the impressed, the expressed, the neo-depressed.
we read we read. but no one knows what really died
50 80 29 years ago

my hands are cut
and I long to be the air

it is not a shark
it is a guitarist
everyone is a guitarist
if he is painted by a cube.

my hands are cut
and I long to be there

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