to sketch but the rarest example,
  you might just require
a touch of Horace -

         bene est:
        hoc erat
                     in votis -

albeit akin to dj shadow
sampling, namely: in reverse -

    but i can't help to notice
that i turn into a kleptomaniac
on the rare occassion
   of walking around town,
drinking...

          to this day,
            with only a few days past
i still possess thorn
        incisions on my left
hand...
                
             i'll admit this most
joyous shame,
        and i rather not excuse
the drinking,
   rather reiterate:

           i'm a kleptomaniac
when it comes to flowers,
            i pluck them from
                         the front-gardens
of english suburbia...

    and imagine a woman in my bed,
or the comfort of a grave
        sealed with an epitaph
and a pecking crow...

       death: that eternal plateau -
at least the thought of
the immediacy of impact having
jumped off a roof,
      with such force,
   suddenly gaining consciousness
of the intricacies of
organs, without delirious
                      factoid fascism...

i agree, medieval art is hardly
a compliment to the paupers of epoch,
seemingly all stand ******,
       esp. when donning a crown,
              anemic yet plump beauties...

comes little wonder,
   why Dante's inferno is celebrate,
like the paradiso is such:
vague, attempt to market memory...

given that the per se has sole relish
in being: intact...
                  
  but on the odd occasion that i do
find myself bound to an up-right
spine and moving legs...
           drinking,
                   i will gain a sudden impulse
to craft a bouquet...

             throw it onto the roof just
outside my window,
   and allow the sun to...

             is it me, or, do only slavs mummify
flowers in books?
          
    that's the one Meursault aspect
i seem to have been born with,
       my mother loved poetry in her youth,
and she used to
             hide flowers in books...

come to think of it:
it's hard to think about her without
a dimension of grief...
     but the "problem" is:
                   i can't comprehend
a reflective mannerism for grief...
          
   sure, upon the served impetus,
i can show a reflex to feed the satire
of mortality...
        
              reincarnation: as in,
         only a limited number of people?
hard to choose, given that
i've slept uneasy for the past 10 years
as if i killed someone...
              butler...         or a butcher?

such a beautiful world exists,
outside the realm of man's ambitions.