Breakneck words, racing around,
trouncing across the wooded tops
of long dead, roughened boughs.
Tongue deadened, heavyweight champion
without leagues to move around: breath famine;
the time of a hare loping down the barren barrow.
Sought out lungs, captivating oxygen in a symphony of
sanctioned Guantanamo iron poles.
Tense, rippling knuckles, wound round,
round the starlight of Betelgeuse
six hundred and forty two point  five light years
away.
“Away with you” patches the scabs and root bitten nails
of some lost keratin; peace—nought found.
Await the rush of overbearing insinuations
claiming now a dead solicitation.
Learning hath been done
and redone, a series of embittered eyes
collecting up images that retain singularity status.
One talk, one Breath,
It’s all bout
to change to—
something better than
the jacked up prices on petrol station boards and the lips will
no longer book it past the mind’s inconsistency, bereft of known speak.
A challenge for not the sake of self: saké drank: but for the
peace under the left breast.