A Poem [that doesn't have a title]

The reason why I didn't really fill up this space over the past week is that I did not want to impose more rant upon you. It's been an eventful, hard-working, stressful, sleepless, caffeinated week. The drama queen in me was shoved in the wings, while the Christ figure solidified itself centre-stage-- so I carried the weight of my work all alone. And come on, I am capable of better things than just cribbing! Proof: I wrote a poem last week whilst I was submerged under books and books.

--- The Poem: (It doesn't have a title)

Rustle, rustle, of the turning page,
Hard-covers against my rib-cage.
On my toes, under my nails, in my hair,
Paper, ink, print and words tear
Each other to the profit of my mind:
Tautologies, oxymorons and nonsense combined.
I lick the words, swallow the argument:
"But what is it, that de Certeau meant?"
I turn on my back, head on my pillow,
Under my neck, the complete works of Pirandello.
I tattoo my skin with all those words:
Meaning nest in my mind like herds
Of philosophers whose fingers are hammers
That go about hitting in army-like manners.

(I haven't written a poem in a long time, so comments/feedback phuleez.)