I Want Real Dreams

I’ve become more and more allergic to pleasantries
Perfumed poetry turns me off
Instead, I want words that stink
The words must arc like sparks from a broken electrical socket

I like best the flowers which grow in the wet earth over septic tanks
I don’t know from what fabric dreams are woven
But I want real dreams
Ones that rest in the palm like a woman’s breast
or a hand grenade

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