april! April! A parade? A pill eat! A prilled me! a pilgramage!
appy polly loggies logic, hahaha—
hmm, hungry, apple polly or apple molly? but Nay, Nay, not yet May.
A Paroxysmic Release I Love. inloveoutlovetonguelovesomelycomelylove OH!
marched and marched—blarren suhthern lands
from the past, to apresentreadyinlife
butt when? butt then! we may, we may, become of hotter
denser things, (ah! my hart collapsizing)
to seem, too soon, come june, and
and slightly punning jupiter wreathed in moons of jewlies, oh you shalt lie, (we lay!)
how i’d love to dove under such and such a son,
but i’ve become digressed, over and older,
over every star, i am become a sky, and the like of futileture lies.
and now a pretty reddy indigodot liiight. (lick her divine)

oh, present! more present!
perfect present times

respite despite, regular rhythm chants
the cadence, of slow and slow and slowly
rows the evening on, naked from the glance
of continual happenstance, so be
the slowly nod, a weary frame of fate.

ah, but the so and slow and evening glow,
could shake the quiver of suspended space,
to which that mystic pace, so softly flows,
no matter, in the thin forgotten place,
but ah! floating mortal; venerable.

hmm, for what to cling, and for who to sing?
such and such are but broken things, and yet,
warm and wrapped, and nodding, nodding, yawning,
slipping the curl of such thoughts, days they slept,
hmm, to have wept? or to have slept? old friends.

civilization in the sands
to dust, to dust, to the rust
and the rest of the industrial,
in the irons of sleep,
forged by the dream perpetual,
nothing more, than a broken machine. 

listen, listen, won’t you just listen to me,
give me, if anything, just one brief sitting
of your time, perhaps then, just a bit of love,
and tell me, you’re all mine, and i am all in all
yours, and everyone will feel the radiation,
of such a nuclear love, and they will listen,
to the aftermath, an atom bomb, just like the stars. 

for we are, we are, more than ever, just an image,
in the mind of a priest, of a love, the love,
the love of, of everything, that has ever expanded,
since the beginning of time, yes, we, we are the ones,
that since the beginning, have been wrapped up in
the endless, the expanding, the infinite light of love.

but won’t you just, just listen for one second to a heartbeat,
not your own, one far from the beat, but in time, yes, yes,
in time with me, we could be, but how should i express,
that we should be, the fusion of the smashing infinitesimal,
that began the creation, of east, of west, of all the sun
holds dear, the generations of everlasting, ever continuing
love? light? perfection? infinite? ethereal? nay, nay,
i say, we are something, so much, far much more.  

listen, i have very little time left,
my life, like words spoken, a moment of sound.
so i must leave a note of purpose, meaning, permanence,
permanent enough to at least outlast my dying breath,
orations come, but silence lingers. just long enough i hope,
for i have some dreadful density of spirit to confess,
something dark, and hidden. stowed away since first i hid it,
deep in the chasm of my breast,
i confess she, this silent-pitch memory, has bested my body,
much of the reason that as now, i lie in decay.
but here now, come the time, at last, at last, to profess
and undress the evil spirit, though unknown to you, has always been
just under my now wrinkled skin. i…well in truth, i say that i— 

a universe.
an existence,
spinning, expanding
beyond control,
nothing to hold.
thought spun galaxies
and memory stars,
but so much dark,
so much dark.

I heard a bird today
breaking the silence
of recent days, weeks, months,
life as of late;
too late has not come yet
but soon age will kiss death
and i will disappear.

in studious silence
among the stale breath
of so many dead men
but their faint whispers
have been shadowed by this bird,
a chirp to awake, and fly
forward once more, fear be
absent—into the light.

pondering on lyrical ballads
and scribbling what i may or must
but who can truly say of what
wordsworth felt that day,
pephaps me, for my heart
leaped, just now, at one rebellious bird
among many, one with the courage
to cry aloud.

forgetful-grown, I have become
of particles of divine inspiration.
numb-grown, to those passions of
present memory. I am hidden in the folds
of the past; torn to shameful shambles,
scattered on a funeral wind,
where I can hear death’s shackles.
but today,
i heard my savior bird—
not much else matters.

life weighs ever heavier,

every tick of time,

waves of space breaking levies,

future lost equilibrium

with the unshaken ghosts

of regret, life undone,

swallowed whole by

black holed death.

we carry burden.

and her relatives

of dreadful incest, deadly chains,

fear the flames like ghosts

those celestial generations

of ever increasing fate,

spontaneous creation

mixed and impurified with existence

in a meaningless sound,

the futile fury, of all seen.

more so felt.

the partly-dressed cancer
dancing fragile among dreams
of the coming and burning sun,
she had no bones, bound alone by beauty,
“fear death by water”
and stumble under burden,
the empty weight that fills her frame,
faded eyes—looking for me, i wonder?
to sigh and dream of less distant memories—

she dances with brothers and sisters
songs of soft stellar wind, but she burns
more than they, more deeply too,
“if only,” she wishes, “a love to fool.”

the distant, tiny stars in pairs,
gazing gently, with intent belief,
she felt perhaps one fool could love,
more than they, and more brightly too,
“perhaps that one also, sways with the moon.”