Fresh paper the colour of snow
you write on
signs words
embellished
you print
learning to print
you type learning to print
hacking on the typewriter
like everyone before you
the huge poets
the Brontê sisters
in the mist
with books in hand
on lap
feeding off words
and cheesecake
dressed in age old clothes
you travelled the cobble streets
to your publisher
who printed in bookprint
words by you
who just had to
become famous

glasses
words print
and print on fingers pale
bone pale

end
"elegy on a country churchyard"

dead flesh shall live again,
and fuck the poets ass
a ravine where thousands died
a step into Hell, with its glowing flowers
the poems are cold

hell is heat

you just had to become somebody
so they could put your picture on the wall of the museum
above the bed where you died,
as the guide cheers on
with the tour
learning Kafka, and biblical quotes
ending a sunday afternoon in the library
so that you could tell all the aftermath of the word

you ended up dead in ur sleep at 34
poets die young and burn with the sun

Rimbaud, arriving drunk at a party

stoned