imperfection

can a poet write in justonenight are sleeping my pen is flying the scribblesarewinning the pages are dying devils sigh when the angels cry While I make love totheunderdog Mylanguagecreatesitself improvisation in its purest form it flies up our noses intoour memory the taste is mostly subtle with bursts of spiceandcaramel I feel the planet spin and trip into ecstasy in vibration no pain is greater than pleasure Release these breasts from their cages Welcome the thrusts of the janitor Take greatcare in your s t e p What happened to your accent? the telephone can wait but the magic box searches me and my violation is envious of me For Im p e r f e c t ion and have left us cold and old

How many poems when you