I stepped into an avalanche, it covered up my soul; when I am not a hunchback, I sleep beneath the hill. you who wish to conquer pain, must learn to serve me well. you strike my side by accident as you go down for gold. the cripple that you clothe and feed is neither starved nor cold; i do not beg for company, in the centre of the world. when I am on a pedestal, you did not raise me there. your laws do not compel me to kneel grotesque and bare. I myself am the pedestal for the thing at which you stare. you who wish to conquer pain, must learn what makes me kind; the crumbs of love you offer me, are the crumbs I’ve left behind. your pain is no credential, it is the shadow of my wound.
do not dress in rags for me, I know you are not poor; you don’t love me so fiercely when you know you are not sure, it is your world, beloved, it is your flesh I wear.
the avalanche will knock you down.
did laundry but it came back smelling like sewers. what’s the point?
the word “artichoke” is interesting because it starts out friendly (art-) but ends thuggish (-choke). the “I” is the link.