on tradition

in the periphery
at the core
piles of smelly poems
piles of smelly poems

indecency ditch
piles of smells

fester fester mr. fester

look at that mountain
your heart scrabbling at adam’s apple
so wolfed

romanticism gallantly balanced
on various precipices

oh my body
is outside my body

oh my soul
is outside my soul

that is not my body
in that confusing pile

you cannot see my body
but look at this mountain

it is sublime
what is that smell?

what is beauty now
that we have seen mountains...


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