No. I write against. (Aihmeanlike, against it.) No, against it. Like this. [The point is pressing A dark circle down down down.]
So (Djiuknowhatuhmean?) I clash on this. After doing that All day, on air! With conscious Breath, (which is just force myself Breath!) out of the glued muck Moss in my sere bellum. My Me do lah. Oblong god. Duh.
How long, these fractured seams of seemlessness around?
In the meantime, here’s some words, an image of a Stream, and I’ll say: “Like a dead Man(’s passing.)” Look at it. And you thought infinity Could be brushed off like a fly! Wring your wet sloppy self! Undried, then sundried! Well. Now, you are one-eyed.
But what about that cry Of true voice swishing lost And found in the growing Concrescent infundibular Abyss?
Oh, that might be the Sublime Sadness! (That one mentioned once.) Keeping the Eternal Walker out in the dwindling Afternoons, closer than tears To littered ponds of cold light.
Will he pull out the solidified Spirit, or precipitate his freedom As indistinguishable from the Mystery? Oh. Please. Then the Self would be (the question). And there. Would be. No. Need for the asked king.