a poem a day or two away

a can of beer becomes
an AM-FM transistor
radio with a video
screen, all put together
to be lifted

to the eyes and tasted,
collage after collage,
formally eloquent or
laced with a hard core,
trendaciously sensual,

himself withdrawing as
he reveals, low-profiling
as he faces full on. And
since style without
content is death

Style without content is death.
No poem will come.
No death will come.
To come is death.
Come to death.
Petite morte.
Little death. Style without content.
Be content without style.
No poem will come.
Death will come.
Come. Death. Style. Content.

Style without content is death.

You come inside
my tomblike womb
but no babies grow there.

Your fetid sauce pools
in my pool.
I find my smile
drifting away on a sea.
I see
you and who
you are.

Your slipstick shaft
carries fluid virus
stylizes masses—
its content infects me.

But the disease stops here.
Without style death is content.

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