Good, nurturing & devastating poetry

is but a rorschach test

of impulses & sounds

strewn about like I Ching sticks,

resolving their formations

like weeds in a cruelly pruned garden

or wildflowers making cracks in the asphalt

of human straight lines

Nasty good-boy poetry

or venomous pretty maid verse

can't become more than a slight irritation

- and a new year

is just the same old hill

talking to itself

In the end,

all I crave is central heating

to die in

and flames to consume the left-overs