Stink

The clattering of plates in the sink
Makes me want to write a paper.

I read without much life.

Empires are trouble to the race.

I sicken myself when I have anything to give.

The dry land works with its friends to materialize
As life.

Scars of my own trouble with art are here.

I ask myself what it is that I have that I need to
Write.

Mayonnaise on the spoon dries in the afternoon.
A world of kitchens and bathrooms and a hallway

Comprises all that works, thus all that is allowed.

To seek God in a flower is to be the same as a
Memory:  This empire swings with a knocking

And  a Mother with her own troubles.

I sing of no one's Goddess (my mistake is being
a nerd without frills).

I have loved and I have written a load. 

A chasm of chiliastic braisings.