as ever, or as never before,
           three nights solid
with a flute in mind,
and nothing by placebo sounds
in my ears,
        a map without a compass,
and yet, a memory,
    as ι remember that song my
mother sang to me as a
4 year old boy...
               which she doesn't
remember, but akin to the lyrics:
the boy soldier takes
to flight...
                  or something akin...
even with the angels singing
ι would give that up to hear
that song once more...
               but in the now,
immediate gravitation toward
relief...
             of genius and of child,
how they grey alway have
to make up their conventionality
by excavating a lie that matches
up with a child, who, apparently
managed to read, aged 5 or 6...
  but 3 days and 3 nights passed,
and the flute was still vibrating
in a cave of mind,
       how clearly conscience
fornicates with memory...
           to allow a lapse of memory
is to allow a lapse in
the foundation, of conscience...
       lest we not forget becomes
the motto,
          sloth reaches far beyond
the body-glutton...
                and i searched and searched
for this flute...
     until i found it...
      like a word in a crossword
puzzle...
                    corvus corax's
      song la i mbealtaine...
           suddenly a lying is a short-cut
to "magic"?
               a white lie conjures
   black magic?
              doesn't matter,
  the once child now stands a bearded man,
tried by a woman who said:
and her money,
         no matter housing shortages
in england, no matter,
             the prices of real-estate...
shame on you for having family!
shame on you!
       shackles him with
an unplanned pregnancy -
the crowd roars! a miracle of sorts!
a miracle worthy of trans-national
alimony payments!
                    well... ****'s either
made in china... or ****'s not made
in china; but ******* taiwan!
             far beyond the wildest dreams
of homosexuals raising children...
i'm waiting for these science miracles
of i.v.f.,
                 of all the blah blah talk
of in vitro ***, never mind the ****...
            apparently jerking off
to a video of a girl jerking off
is apparently a study of pyrotechnics...
     as she sits self-loathing
with a bottle of wine,
   i'm hitting the skids on m'ah barley
and wheat ms. amber giggling
the night into a wake of a fox
run-over...
                     and with an honest
day's of labour behind me...
    the easy-chair...
                       only four types of
snakes:
             the boa, the sidewinder,
the cobra and the rattler...
          but which two are most akin?
never mind...
     at least we know that
the dinosaurs left an abstract of
their existence...
            the snake,
              an abstract of spine
and cranium, or what once was
the mighty behemoth footing of
a t-rex...        
                  how are we to be humbled
to resemble the once mighty
beasts, consecrated in the humble
snake akin to the dinosaurs?
            the infamous:
brain and spine in a pickle jar?
             what hell already awaits,
man's hunger: that only breeds
insomnia cities akin to new york...
akin to the lack of eye-lids
          to cover the snake's eyes...
imagine...
     falling asleep,
                   with eyes wide open;
only with a history as
         prolonged as the snake's
ancestors might allow...
                we are not even
allowed to imagine the humbled
version of ourselves,
               just as the dinosaurs
didn't expect the snake to be
   their historogical sacrament stating:
obvious...
              perhaps certain books
should be deemed taboo for anyone
other than a poetic mind...
              a prince-robbed-riddled-mind...
    with no ancient unearthing,
i would rather see the serpent regain
its limbs and point toward...
                 what proof is there of
a meteor?
               surely science ought to know,
the point where it hit the earth,
exactly...
               perhaps ther mariana trench?
after all...
                   the great deserts
of this world, used to be great mountain
ranges...
                if we're going to bury
stephen hawking, and take pity,
while he ****** off to jeffrey epstein's
*** **** parties on a private island...
i'll also take leave,
   and use the back-door,
                     stepping outside of
all constraints of time, and space.