...air...water...food...
I exhale none but air
inhaled where...? Dans la mer.
Plus I bottle fresh water
in Perth.
All the 'shrooms I consume
only bloom in Khartoum.
(Oh, if only I'd known this
from birth.)
...more food...
I've had, yes, mix'd success
with this old apple press.
It provides me my cider
and sauce.
Plus these ground peas I find
former slaves left behind.
(Leaves me numb crumbs I stumble
across.)
...more food...
See my seashore tureen
made with seaweed I glean...?
(I make salt by the seashore
as well.)
And, like Winnie-the-Pooh,
I crave honey. (Don't you...?)
It's a fondness I don't care
to quell.
...supportive environment...
The mere smell of a rose
casts a spell o'er my nose,
as do odors of clovers and
lilies.
Likewise, jasmine and pine
are great fav'rites of mine.
(Scent of feet tends to mete me the
willies.)
...waste...
Full, I urinate south
of the Amazon's mouth,
so to irrigate forest and
flora.
Deeply buried my shit be
outside Chloride City.
(I can't seem to locate
Gomorrah.)
...sleep...
Ev'ry nighttime I sleep
a full eight -- soundly, deep:
nine's too many but seven's
too few.
Sure, I wish I slept more;
waking life's such a chore.
How to do so I haven't
a clew.
...clothes...
All the clothing I sport's
sewn from milk cartons (quarts),
supplemented by trips to
Goodwill.
I refuse to wear shoes,
much preferring to choose,
dusk till dawn, to sit, yawning...
but still.
...shelter...
If unable to find
a dry cave of some kind,
then I dwell in a shelter
of hay.
Or, like Disney's Three Pigs,
I use twigs to build digs.
(Sadly, neither keep grey wolves
at bay.)
...safety...
Paranoia is not
the disorder I've got:
I experience reason'd
suspicions.
Which is why I proceed
getting guns which I need --
not to mention defensive
munitions.
(a work in progress)
