servitude of a sovereign: **** to storm, i swear i was thinkin' of a souvenir.**

at first, it tastes like a dip into marmite,
an ashtray that's actually a jar
of pickles, leftover...
pinky in: yum yum...
sure are hell it's marmite...
then the second dip with the pinky: ash;
and nothing but ash, and the quest
for broken bones...
a whiskey sharpshooter,
and the leverages of a contained
brain...
     does old age really matter to be
of a reflective ontology,
can there be no ontological continuum?
must the old always matter in maxim
that the young "must" matter
in bravery of having things "misunderstood"?
what are we to trade such opposites?
who are we to question,
or to ask, to play hero, villain,
or the "messiah" intermediating?
quest my dear, the daring of all worthy supper
within the poetic antics of anti...
but a broken man who had his last
refrain, and made it,
   to encompass "the real";
   and the thus encompassing "public" -
such that whatever is worth reading:
must be read...
        and if unread...
the remnant of the lost clue...
       had it be binding by hand,
by feet alone,
any of all exclusion of thinking,
thereby by the allowance of the crown...
served alone...
     servitude of sovergneir...
            ah, to you all:
to be the upkeepers of the lasting
survivors...
and may that last be
the necessary breath, that night have said:
before you: lays no dead man,
but a man, awoken;
esp. that man dead, enthralled by song!