appropriate n'est pas

[aslant]

Lajos Parti Nagy

Becomes a Small Machine

I drank a lot my guilty conscience was
more than the next day could handle
I grasped this thanks to the explanation of my white fingers
fisting tightly into my palm, how wildromantic you are
and whatever it is you exquisitely
build into love, has no name,
this way it doesn't mean I at the end--
I was ignorant, blind-dubious
and I reacted as I learned about it
without finding myself, in my steady hands I oozed away
into poems if I ever existed
into lyrics I admired through the poems
scribble scrawled & ruffle knotted together
and the intellect, if there is any . . .
that it happened inside her with me
is because a poem is not an intellectual clumsiness
the poem belongs to something that leaves during operation
becomes a small machine buzzing and flitting
stargrinder figcram