THIS POEM

This one time the other day

I was hanging in a hammock

Swinging like a fucking pony

Who was hanging in a hammock

It felt like a silk n woven bed

Like if the mother of all spiders

Wove a bed that’s made of web

I was in it and quite caught in it

Like it was banging on my head

Every time I made for movement

I would feel the web instead

But it was like

I was just “thinking” it in my head.

But then those spider words were read

Because as I thought of it instead

It became yet -

• another part of this poem.