Seymour.

I may very well starve to death
I lost words.
I wish it were july
I wish it were ever july.
I havent cried
since last year.
when my mother told me
dreaming is useless
saw me with my book
of t.s.eliot
thinking I'l study some avant guard poetry
my mother wanted to save me.
but I hold a fireball
in my chest
that tilts towards the sun
blends with nature
and daylight
I dont belong under your roofs
and plastered smiles
and pastries.
I havent cried
since july
maybe october
I dont know
seymour
by the lake
tilting twards
his guitar
a little little boy
smiling as if he would unleash the cosmos
and their flames.
Seymour by the fish lake
makes me want to cry.
seymour can gulp and gather
and clutter the ugly tangled
little things within me
into syrup like
poetry
and I stand
ad my words lack stamina.
in november
in the cold cluttering dungin of a house
filled with properly dressed beasts.
mother,
I still dream.