as a somehow... perpetually
kissing the trough...
(that best... the spectacle of
a symphony of oinks and gruntling;
snorkeling-grit of stowing
earth with banknote promises:
like an imitation
of the dwarfian act of... mining)...
this debilitating fear:
   and kissing the feet of some
antithesis semite of
a god at the root of all temples...
i am tired of...
an arachnophobia
that has little or, rather,
nothing to do with spiders...
or a claustrophobia
that has little or no...
concern for confined space...
and such is time: relative...
that nostalgia is boasted about...
peacocking dawning sturt...
i want to live a day with
enough sufficient fear
to stage the proper: hormonal
stressors to play their role...
it's not enough to merely...
drink a numbing cushion...
         the will to life has
a precursor within the confines
of a will that never bothers
or teases the structures of
hierarchical power envy...
             i should have been
best designated for the role
of a bus-driver..
               it's not like i made
this sallow choosing of grief...
                 i wish for meeting friends
in a restaurant...
or neighbours in a supermarket
like the best of the best:
retiree...
                like the precursor years
are some new underlay of
Ultricht...
                 or Antwerp...
i'm tired of life...
this non-eventual safety seizing
plot...
              i want to marry death...
i can't begin to imagine
marriage with life: in that most
secluded sub-:
                               enim timor
                ex deus...
                 a sort of paralysis that
no seljuk turk or ottoman
hijacker care to mind...

             i'm terribly tired...
              that i wish for me death as prior
to the death of a mother...
that i sort of wield contortion
excavation loops in: "asunder":
that i cop-out...
when is it believed...
the fungus rot of the brain
without the transcending hallucination
prospects?

            my average my nuanced: "new"..
this antithesis achilles..
my southern average...
my mediocre...
           my left hook concerning broke...
time is... relative...
a death by carrying weight...
   but this... god no god...
               mors naturalis...

                 can't we find ourselves...
before... choking on...
the adventure of death:
the innocent died upon the cross...
            can't the same innocence
be shared with those willing
to make death more relative?
can't there be an unwillingness
to live this... caustic... retract rebellion
  persistence of mrs. quasi?
        
        there is absolutely no
compensation of arguments...
          my words: my little words...
        pauloverbis...
               i do advertise the prospect
of the thumb ruling in
favour of: by death confined...
i will allow the strategy of the less
exempt to rise to their highest
scope of invitation...

                         villain of words...
i am no better than the next:
and the next... no better...
                      i am subsequently
hardly a heart surgeon...
but i am also not...
a left-leaning activist...
             i carry my worth of life
on the posit for:
these words are debasing...
depressive... all the required
connotations of a negative spectrum...
because?
      death is a marriage...
             i am conscious of the:
          
quadratic!

geocentric / vs. heliocentric...
mors-centric / vs. vita-centric...

                     it really doesn't bother me:
some new Darwinistic attache of truth -
i have to be devoid of "truth"
come the: sun "above" the earth...
or the earth "beyond" an extension
of gravity... in linear...
the stars are but photographs...

it's such an itching itch
without a witness of a scratching that...
the very basic... mundane...
so censored... experiences of life...
have become...
iron curtain lifting...
   crown of thorns skidding...
                   this my little:
***** of a nuance...
last reflected upon within
the confines of some pickled
lungs... and some...
choicest of the choicest baltic sushi herrings.