Damage

Damage Poem

Consider the poem as killing machine, sharpened word-gears

turning word-gears, greased and shining engine-block of pornographic

technology – not the catherine-wheel of “genuine” emotion rising

from the swamp of tranquil reflection. It twists

the threads of Penelope’s loom into knotted elf-locks,

seeds the reader’s browser with subversive cookies:

the poem as vicious animal; the poem as

tumor, bulbous and unclipped umbilicus. No more poems

as consolation. I want the poem as damage.