self-

                                 little of
the programming
world
that i do know of...

and as little
that i do receive...
concerning
the video-making
internet
music world...

and... who's who
of...
listening to operatic
compositions?

i hate obnoxious *****...
like an serial killer,
might...
or might not...
i just hate obnoxious
plebs...
receiving recital
statistic
for their internet
                 presence...

like...

     like...

the ladden truth of
the death of X...
"humbled",
by being attired
with the music of
        vide cor meum...
and...
for all the wrong
reason...
the world...
is at... peace...

      i want to give myself
to fathom grief...
but grieving?
i cannot accomplish...
the little of the man
left in me...
to... mourn Achilles
falling from
a quiff rather than
a wound?
        i, i? am to
wander...
  desolate in mourning
"wonder"?

i heave the heart that
dreams the bore
of thought,
that encompasses
the mind,
that... sauters
me free from the given
tangles
of soul, ghost, shadow,
god,
and unto the past extremes
of that remains...
bone...

heave me off this shore...
burry me into
a silence,
to heave, no more...
no shore, no tide,
no god: since he has
become the solitude
of the infantile...
  leave me by barren be...
   i want...

       standing upon
the shore,
the dim lit sight of light
in the dipping moon,
overpower me...
i want the knock-out...
i feel...

   afraid to be freed
by grief,
yet woken to the nearing pass
of...
                the grieving
neared...
           like... a christmas carol
sing-along...
        i'll fake having
lived, even to the point
of having ushered in
its final banality,
of breath...

   i, chamaleon...
    no future, no past,
no scent...
             leave me in my
solipsistic toils!
               please!

you who are me,
my banal, final, mourn...
i leave...
intact...
   to ensure...
what needs to be worth
being worded,
in the parlance of...
leave me...
to be held accountable
to be...
  
                            excused;

give me...
               the chance...
to forget to pause,
and make additions of...

                    furthering the narrative...
because... sure as ****...
none of you will
ever read a Dickensian novel...
and ensure to make
amends!

we are all ghosts to
try to compass
our own sought hearts;
even, with bodies,
thereby-lived-in.