In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;

The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.

I was yet to understand blood.

When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.


In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
                 all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.


There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.

I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,

they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)


In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.

So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.

And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.

Then one day our skin shed and our
organs misted, all that left was buzzings.
And some post-molting wore their old coats
like necromantic cyborgs, and some buzzed together to a bee.
But it took only one ghast accumulating of intertwined
perpendicular lines, the spider before the egg
who could fly across the Ouroboros gagging a new,
and cut the threads of astral, crimson nebulas anchoring
our time.

There is
a wooden
cabin on a hill
It awaits me still.
Hate, Loathing, and Pride, sit by the
indoor fire. And discuss disgust. Logs
of spit and mucus in an ivory stack, therein,
breaketh not they for moon or sun. In abyss, engulfed
in a blister, of scarlet marsh and murky water. Of poison
their cups are filled; midnight blue, the cherubic wine of sorrow.
I join once more my dearest friends and gaze into the fire's flat, eternally burned, lithium disk.

Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
       cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.

I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
                   steam trombones
There
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.

It is a temporal
apple worm sort of fate, that
is no more contingent than a granite lake.
It's tail from my 9-5 jest, its fangs
In my present pips.

Flaking lead, spit on green,
walls formed the small leaned
over bar
known as “Bulkling Beer”
(No pub at the end).
Migrant driven cars zoomed, rippled the window cage, but never stopped.

It dripped with desolate machine roars
and those were the customers.
The poor shop keeper, once in a while, slid in her knitted socks to the mechanical fiend and grabbed a gawkily warm ice cream cone

Dribble I, rusted spheres of number and
ethnicity. My small Hanoi tower, emergent in
sweaty purlicues, yearn for mushroom dish.
I pocket them and once more rinse to the
other side of my frame to await the inquisitors
in a St. Petersburg ’s sleep.