My days

I’m looking for
what I can’t write or sing, for
the impulse that is given,
the one not chosen
‘cause isn’t known,
An “ain’t nobody” à la Steinbeck
A void, à la Perec:

I’m looking for what I don’t know,
Although I know
what I’m looking for.

A dark room and a picking guitar
in my head, the air conditioning
foaming and its soul – the Karma-force
pledging the street,
and the giant bat-like shroud,
the dozing clitoris
and the “Leaves of Grass”:

The event of affect,
is what I’m looking for.

No pictures,
only sharp-cut movies.
And no names, neither you
or I.
Only something we oughta
but can’t imagine,
something to be shy of,
being excited by its wet
open-legs-cum-hair-
spider-like form.
–   It’s what I’m looking for.