Our own little puddle

They will make you sick

These words these emetics 
these crisp fat crusts 

They will make you sick 

Thomas Merton said it

In seeds of contemplation

If you wanna look it up

Before he fell in love

The big soppy monk  

And was electrocuted 

Like a fly 

In a chip shop window 

But anyway he was right 

All we seek's the mego

The mirror, the I

We dunno anything else 

But the contents 
of our own little puddle 

So that's all we'll take with us

When we curl up and die 

Hope there's no one else 
in heaven 

There'll be no other soul 
to recognize 

The liberation of the self 
has made the mind 
as to an ocean

full of faces and fake hair 

Like a plague of plastic jelly fish

The stream of consciousness 
is lavatorial,

swirling indigested rotted matter 
down the pan

It looks like an editorial

Passing through the mind of man 

As Descartes says 
to these days writers

I'm ink 

Therefore I'm spam. 

09/09/17