i just bought
a gramaphone,
and i have
about 20 vinyls
to spare...
the world
can *******:
the lynchmobs
the crucifixions
and the
messiahs
and their subsequent
quasis...
and just enough
whiskey
to drown a whale...
i'd love to exfoliate
in the art,
but, come sober
to the bacon slap-easy
reality of what
reality is: mundane
as a ghost-limb
prosthetic annex...
i'd love to call
this silence
a brain-custard /
-fudge...
edward the confessor
will remain
my favorite
       English king...
i guess i cower...
but i also
   want to forget...
and i want to forget
what would
never erode my
memory...
   i want to
learn the h. p. lovecraft's
ability to dream,
this anglo-saxon
theatre-to-go-to-place...
i dream so little,
that i'd simply love
to dream the dreams
of an outcast...
let me entertain
a day or two...
towing behind me
the murky waters
of Westminster bridge,
and a Dickens
1850 edition of a book,
to say,
nothing worthwhile
about Shakespeare...
tomorrow i'll
put on a record,
drink a coffee
and eat a muffin...
and play
   amnesia friendly...
i just want
to gorge on the primitive
heaving
of: the remains of
culture...
  even this exerpt
of an allowance is
not worth it...
           i wish upon
a stammer,
buckle and fall...
          receiving neither /
or applause to govern
a compensation with...
what does it matter,
does it, does it?
   no...
come to think of it...
not really...
just a highlighted
retrosception
for the insurrection
of Wicker Man...
died the death
of the antagonism
of solipsism:
a **** in a confined
public space:
namely a carriage
of the tube.