bliss station ~ poetry

saturnine & shit

no one writes an ode to small dicks
but somebody probably has.

poetry is full of things no one would do.
that's the thing about it.

at the spring of every poem there's a failed erection
of whatever part of the body undergoing trial -

josef k.'s pancreas.

gregor samsa in apple resale.

the authorized reseller doesn't even notice
anything different,
even raises one hand & sticks out his tongue -

you know, the old mirror-consciousness trick.

I want to wheel the trial room & move around in it -

four curtains, one mirror, enough house.
I would be damsel-prince in my castle,
the princess-woman would pop her head
through the vagina of curtains, asking -

do you want me to finalize this one,
or do you want to try other shades?

I want to try a full-fucking-rainbow
& a dog that actually says bow-bow
like I was taught.

but I'm starting to question many things I was taught -

like how is saturn bad for you?
I mean, looks fine to me.
never looked better, in fact.

Or how god replies to naked hellos.
nope, never was more silent.

he's overworked, poor guy,
name-dropped by poets wanting to sound revolutionary.

overused like saturn. what metaphor
does saturn stand for anyways?

I just know him to be a good-looking planet,
enoughly faraway for me to touch.

~Ajay
26/1/2020