That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love / That I can't exist in a world that consents / a child in a park / a man dying in an electric-chair / That I am able to laugh at all things / all that I know and do not know / thus to conceal my pain / That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man / knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of ll men / and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship / That I am manifold / a man pursuing the big lies of gold / or a poet roaming bright ashes / or that which I imagine myself to be / a shark-toothed sleep / a man-eater of dreams / I need not then be all-smart about bombs

an extract from 'Bomb' by Gregory Corso.

Lovely right. You should read it in its actual form. It's a concrete poem that looks like a falling bomb, with undulating lines and the frantic, almost manic, clustering of disparate verses that display a startling cohesion in the context of each other.

(My ISes are children and I love them so.)

(Also, they tear my things up but that shouldn't be a problem after housebreaking them.)

(I need to whip them into becoming good people.)