Young Poetry

Here's a thing that exists
And you can't even begin to guess how to use it
A squadron of Iridescent Ben Day Dots 
Constant shifts to avoid your fingers'
Pudgy clutches

I'm hiding
So far UP inside a 
concrete pour of majestic crystal clamorings  
On the shoulders of ever compacted minor points
To meet an exit 
Marked by the polar star.

The True Goal
To insert my fingers into every moistened life -
Well packaged characters
Shoveled into the cake hole
Beneath my sternum 

An island is an accident
By all means 
Shame it's slut pride
And steer clear from it's demented