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Print Fresh paper the colour of snow you write on signs words embellished you print learning to print you type learning to print hacking on the typewriter like everyone before you the huge poets the Brontê sisters in the mist with books in hand on lap feeding off words and cheesecake dressed in age old clothes you travelled the cobble streets to your publisher who printed in bookprint words by you who just had to become famous glasses words print and print on fingers pale bone pale end "elegy on a country churchyard" dead flesh shall live again, and fuck the poets ass a ravine where thousands died a step into Hell, with its glowing flowers the poems are cold hell is heat you just had to become somebody so they could put your picture on the wall of the museum above the bed where you died, as the guide cheers on with the tour learning Kafka, and biblical quotes ending a sunday afternoon in the library so that you could tell all the aftermath of the word you ended up dead in ur sleep at 34 poets die young and burn with the sun Rimbaud, arriving drunk at a party stoned