/the creeping shadow, attached to a closing door.

when i hear,
       the bourgeois
                              (and not the bohemian)
recitation
                                      of poetry...
   a bell in the church
                    of my cranium
starts ushering
   but the fewest of words
to suit simple sentence,
   much more grandiose
than the off-shoot
of the cartesian precipitation
   of thought bypassing
doubt in order to be a static: be -
as a precursor of being...
          i, monarch of the night -
ich, herrscher von die nacht...
      see...
  21st german...
        ****** for
                the eyes to see a prodding
tongue
rather than a trained monkey
of a tongue...
        potency on a canvas
                                of english.
i can already see them
coming for the poseur bohemians...
  which is just an extension
of the communist attack on
                              the bourgeois...
and to think...
       my poetics was born on
the roofs of a construction site...
scottish widows HQ... near st. paul's...
with an odd phonecall...
    a past lover...
       bemoaning the experience
of auditory hallucinations...
having made a haggis of
        m.d.m.a., l.s.d., marijuana...
and god knows what else...
         turns out i numbed what
                                       love i gave...
       der would imply a specific night...
from what i gather...
               and the earth cried: fowl!
   when cain, without abel,
   attempted, and later did:
        take his own life...
               not that i will...
         without prior to seeing
                the queen elizabeth zee zweite
funeral procession!
             who could be stupid enough...
to take their own life...
not wanting to die...
  just after they burry the lime and lemon
and rasberry icecream hue attired
colour of cotton lady?
you'd be mad to miss
                the new print on economic
toilet paper...
  with ol' charlie at the head
of titanic...
                   c'mon...
                       do your thing...
       but wait till this one mortality
                                       plays out...
and then: **** it! hey presto!
                          the wild west is here.
but "they" are coming for the poseur bohemians...
          the bourgeois' children...
i "know" it: i smell it...
                          i'm all pavlov about it.