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                I have a habit of
                discovering poets
                and buying their
                complete works

                outright, but then
                reading them like
                a book is far too
                rich, like a bowl of

                yellow butter icing;
                I worked my way
                through Sylvia and
                it damn near killed

                me; I tried it with
                Emily and it left me
                all terse; Allen left
                me lost on street

                corners with my
                genitals hanging out;
                Roger left me on
                the doorstep for

                the milkman; it
                wasn’t until I
                returned to Old
                Bull, all cantank-

                erous with acc-
                epted discipline,
                that I found my
                self flicking through

                like butterflies on
                buddleia, enjoying
                myselves for the first
                in a long long time





Allen Ginsberg wormhole: my life / of others
buddhleia wormhole: I’ve only just realised / after so many decades / that the smell of neglected land is lilac buddleia
letting go wormhole: prayer to my self
poetry wormhole: wriving
reading wormhole: the peculiar continuum of trains
Sylvia Plath wormhole: Black Rook / in Rainy Weather
William Carlos Williams wormhole: living mystery / murder theatre
yellow wormhole: gre[wh]y / has Daddy left us?