I am a dealer in words
A peddler of syllables and bigger sounds
My wares do not come cheaply.
Culled cold and crisp and candid
Or warm, wilting, wet, wondrous,
From hearts and feet, broken things and trees.
A mishmash, mismatched, merely masochistic
Or sounding sonorous, softly slicking back stars
Like liquid lust, ludicrous— longing and lovely.
My hands are tired and scratched
My paper thatched
with ink or blood, or blood made ink,
Pounding out from the centre of the desired
Money spent, life rent, love hint, leaking vent
To come out today, to see you come
Out of foggy mist and get the gist
As you drink my elixir; knowing all the while what tricks ‘er
Making form and shape taking, scrawled in hasty night colours
Packed up and stacked up with care
Full of things of which I should beware
Lay them out in baskets and bushels
You can break them down and chew them,
Interpret them and abuse them
But I can only give you what will fill your heart
With love this strong, I’ll never make a living selling art.
But there it is, at last
My egocentric, selfly portrait
Without a sonnet, binding, or a cast
These have forever to wait
For I, I am a dealer of words
A peddler of syllables and bigger sounds.