poem found in a bin

poetry happens most in the absence of itself

if the thought intrudes-
"i am a poet" or
"i am writing a poem"
then the work is destroyed

poets destroy more poems than they create

poets pollute as they create

wake up poets!

yours is old news!

take out the cord of meaning
from your mess of ink

post it online
freed of matter

it walks..
it talks..

the temple of icthus

in a cold dilema
i churn
my teeth clatter
 my thoughts burn

whosoever printed this
 excrescence
has form

but her subtle temper
 must recognise all
who float there

kerosene windows
stained on her
vast
 interior intimate

a piscean choir
(in the dark)
 voicing a passion

it is rising from the deep
archaen roots
of Parnassus