I want to write a poem that creaks like floorboards
That peels, in long strips, in layers off the walls
Dis colored by years of slatted sunlight through the blinds
And cigarette smoke, yellowed, cancerous.
I want words like age and illness to bend themselves
In content and form to my meaning, to grab imagery
Like the neck of a guitar and pluck noisy discontent
Out of five worn strings: boredom, lust, anxiety, alcohol, loneliness.
Like dust motes idling, hovering in a still room,
The way mildew quietly makes itself known:
I want to weild a sentence in silence, to snake it up your sinuses
And wrench the way you think about me out into the bare daylight.