for all i know, i know that the guy who wrote wonderful life (black), will hardly be the one flipping burgers, or the one: dreaming of a dream day-time job; who cursed the makers of fatigue mustard, and the mortgaged "convenience" of requiring souls.*

sometimes a moon-rise is less intrusive than
a sun giving a yawn,
the sky hardly changes colours,
but the orb does -

from blood orange, then through the zenith
of pale clown like paint -
the sky doesn't change colour though,
it's only the orb that does,
and it's so piquant - pleasing to
have an idea on what to concentrate,
and how sometimes the contorts of the moon
levitate on the blurry side of things,
what, with the sun being
the only source of eyeing the "invisible"
spectrum of ultraviolet,
that pulverising source of "invisible" light,
agitating beyond comparative lit.;
how strange how the moon rises
so quickly,
      how the moon can reflect the most
bountiful sunrise, with face alone,
acne via meteor ridden face -
and still, the starry constellations left
intact, while the autumnal clouds
are left intact, within vanilla moulds
of softly spoken milken;
  if only i might die,
leaving behind an eye-sore of
a cashew + pistachio hue of soft pouch,
a glacier of sugar worth a weekend of
venice;

i'd die the happier man,
                              than a don juan;
stating:
   i might have died the dearest
quack of loneliness,
but i died: leaving at least:
one woman intact:
and her guardian's worth,
                         of a guarded self:
namely leaving by
post-scriptum will, to her expertease
             of calculated defence:
as impetus primos,
             includi mea: bellum instigo.