“to bed a cricket / stroke my goatee”

Wikipedia Poem, No. 666

“Estragon sees the chicken bones on the ground and stares at them greedily.”



to bed a cricket
stroke my goatee

i dance from side to side now
furrow my brown house

sparrow flutters in a fruit bowl
with whom am i arguing

crickets then go to bed
obsess over critics

crickets and poets both
lord over their own right

hands squeeze the toe of a boot by a tree
on a country road so they can be close to me

its inevitable yes she can be too
she can force it upon herself

space and space again
deprive him ommatidia

smile and she’ll slip an oven mitt
over critics over her right hand

i squeeze the thin lords quaking line
it must be caressed by neon pliers

i love reality with my waist again
and again deprive him space

deprive him teeth and smiles i slip
an oven mitt over the critics oh lord over all

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