A voice from the past in a dream,
a voice not heard for years.
Some “hi” and generally pleasantness,
followed by:
a tale of a German professor,
how his experiment went awry.
All in clear concise German.
I'd almost forgotten that voice,
with syllables of neat acuity.
Giving comfort without a comforting word.
My minds way of  me giving a kind of esteem,  
I cannot really give myself.
As words of another, in a fragment of a dream.

I keep trying to trying to write,
but the words keep running off into
the night.
While I collapse into docility.

It's as if me and creativity have
gone through a divorce.
I guess I must have thought
with a little too much force.

Maybe if I get a late night snack,
the word's will come running
back to take a bite.  
while I burst into verbosity.

Vegetarian sandpaper snake,
opaque as a back ache.
Tied into steam whipped air.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Following a Papel sideshow travelling into town
to form a claim of no coherent ambivalence.
With most moist avuncular symmetric denial.

Reclaiming such winkled names in claws.
Reptile claws of rainbow rhythm or
mindless meter.

Needles and spokes,
rustled and restless,
concrete and wingless.

Turning smile as screws eyes are bolts.
Locked out and locked in.

May I borrow a tomorrow?
I'll trade you today and yesterday.
One is worthless,the other's
too much work.
Just give me the result,
without the effort,
and I'll be on my way.

When it falls will it make a sound?

I'm sure that we will hear.

Will it touch the ground?

I'm sure we'll see.

Does it matter in the slightest?

No, not in any great way.
it's all down to the laws of causality.
After all, it's just another tree.
One loss is only a loss,
if it leads to a multiplicity.

Who was it that took axe to bark?

We have no need to know

Why do the deed to bring the fall?

It does not matter; another will grow

will it just stay here to rot away?

No,We'll burn the wood to
be warmed in the cold of night.
To let us see and cook in it's light.
A wrong for our needs,
and our wants is always a right!

Choking in you clothes,
Tight; pretty as a tiger rose.
Wild claws, sharp point needle feet
Slightly reddened, in light of
Blood dead moon; resting on a
Salt grain littered sky
Hurry up n' drink the glass throne pond
Squander its delusion sup
Quickly now fresh prey is nearing
From unnatural light clearing
From the songs of the throng.

Your claws deep in;
Drawing his tin blood
All the wealth, of
Disease potential
Your groans of
Victory.
At the peak of flesh;
Lust referential.

Night; pretty in absence Of days clothes.
Glares darkness through home
Windows.
You prey is consumed withered
And fallen, twisted to a whim.
From snake to worm, birth
Blood stolen from him.
your Tiger rose left him
Sleeping in weakness.
Now hunger freed
Back to the daylight
Life you lead.

When the measure is of a greater
worth than that which is measured,
we will diminish.
The grammar of our time will
be perfect.
Our words will be so refined,
but meaning will be
impossible to find.

The length of us will be the last of us,
the depth of us will be lost on us,
and finally we will be perfect.
Finally we will be empty.

We will live for the moment,
but each moment will be sparse,
we will diminish.
Each thought will be magnificent
in structure.
Our hold on “reality” will be firm.
impossible to transgress,
impossible to learn.

The length of us will be the last of us,
the depth of us will be lost on us,
and finally we will be perfect.
Finally we will be empty.