Erudite
I learned to succumb to the letter eating
two brained beasts that live inside the
intricate scrolls. The cartilage carved
scrolls, deep in the throat of
each beast’s syllabi shadow that
perpetrates suicide on the fingers. Mine
have died at night, like the daylily,
while prodding them down the rolled
flesh tubes, waiting for the
contraction, waiting for the alphabet
soup throw back.
Large pupil lenses have raped
my brain, stole my gold, and
impregnated me with bound paper.
A rigid beast told me that the extinct cafeterias
that lined my subconscious school, and the marker
stained satchel that reflected in the apple-eyes of my teachers,
were no more. He told me, “This is real. That was bullshit.”
That stiff beast was cut of board. Free
hand, no template would be made
as difficult to master. I’d call him master,
in exchange for a quarter of his
mastery. Could he master me?
I’d let him master me. The beast
that has given me a new frame.
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