"Those who love their own noise are impatient of everything else." --Thomas Merton
The losing of art I just might master; forgetting what things with such intent as if lost on the process of disaster
Murder a word a day. Curse the cluster of syntax, sentience, and sibilants. The losing of art I just might master.
Write about writing. Lose details farther, faster: places and names. I mean it, I mean loss like this is no disaster.
I could lose it (art being quite useless) or, if need be, industry in imitation. I admit the losing of art I just might master.
Hoard cities of information, lots of it, faster and vaster. Leave like lovers leave, leave my last poems gently. If I miss them, their loss is no disaster.
No! No, I can't lie (your filthy noise, your gesture so disarming)--Oh! Come home before I'm content to lose you. Losing words isn't too hard to master, but such silence looks like (hear it!) like disaster.