Sometimes I am a bug
I travel to distant places, over indifferent
bodies and they come alive to the caresses
of my indifferent self.
There upon a sheet of paper,
my feelings flayed alive;
the colour ran from my body
onto the hung skeletons of signs*
while that which seizes paper
had done its final seizing.
On other days, I am a man
calloused from all the touching.
I read the morning papers, I drink the dreary tea
And then I feast off the papers some more.
*words.
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