Yes, I'm like an animal. I'm a writhing, raving cannibal
In my spectacles and jeans.
I'm mad and methodical and I'm happy to give myself over
To the mess of automatic, catastrophic, philosophic reactions
Bubbling over the sides of my mind like tasty gumbo and mumbo jumbo.
I exist without subject or tense
And I don't care if I don't make sense.

I could easily shovel you full of crap, teasing you and bending you until you snap.
I could easily let you remain in your rut,
Like a donut:
Defined by the emptiness at your core.
But as long as there is sunlight and crimson and wildness in the world, I can't let you.
Not anymore.