~25cl and a "next"
   day's worth of an afternoon,
while watching the next
concubine of a single mother's
household, play fiddle
to the garden,
    and there are no violins
and no crescendo,
and the day incubates
several winds at once,
           and you're like:
n'ah...
              i shouldn't,
but i should,
but then again i shouldn't,
and: light-hours never do it for me,
how daylight is least
complimentary to drinking
habits...
      is it really all about the rhyme?
rubric "tautology",
   pedagogy skew,
    only the ******* have
a desired inclination?
       well... we know what
'all the little hitlers write at night'
gets you,
a notable mention
in a harold norse autobiography,
mush akin to w. h. auden...
sure, the feeling is mutual,
it's not longer a "circumstance"
of being circumcised,
it's a scenario of playing
the cameo castrato role
in some dim figment of "reimagining"
the status quo of a
pro golfer's harem...
i can do saturdays...
but come sunday?
    everything is just, plain weird...
gearing up toward a monday
and the tide of "subtle"
gradations of a work ethic...

https://magma poetry.com /
     20th-century-  poets/

i know so little, having read this,
that i'm almost unabashed by
the fact, per se...

             so scuttling through
a list of failings,
  crude tongue,
   lack of ethical standards,
a whole plethora of shortcomings,
but it's only about
a worth of an afternoon,
   ~25cl  of leftover whiskey,
and rolling tobacco...

       a microcosm of creeping
existential crises...
    and all that worn down flack
of a democratic tuxedo,
to any event,
but one in particular:
a funeral of some sort....

         to better, or for no worse avail...
and so little,
and so late,
            and all the eager tender
hearts make available...
    some sort of c.c.t.v. counter,
some ghost,
          some clarification,
and then some stupid plause,
some norman and normie
sunday zenith of a football match
spectated before the new altar
of t.v.,
               and, as ever,
a dampened sense of
          disinhibition,
              heightened scrutiny
from the slaughterhouse brigade...
even the bulls don't
give off a whiff of a dumb
animal compensation for their
worth of a blank canvas blank
back stare...

         little world, little promise...
little of much, and also the little
of the little...
                      how many compromises
had to be met in metaphysics?
       as many as away from
the translation of: abstract...

               a life, in death:
                       always the persiting
circumstance of a waiting line...
           or if not outright melancholy,
then a blatant nostalgia...
        
   and now, to find ease,
    an arm-chair,
    a snooze corner,
             even a shadow,
to play with...
                  
     seems i don't exactly have
to be a sailor and fear
myself towed by some slouch
   to the depths,
          that i might drown...
i'm already a voice
in a democracy,
          and i'm drowning,
                        as we "speak":

to "think" of having firm
standing in this cauldron,
  of roots: when one is constantly
up-rooted...
                         is a fool's errand;

and sometimes,
to chance those...
    who are in the theatre of opinion,
with opinions,
that never, never really begin
to chance dialectic...
   a mind of scrutiny,
but are forever,
            base,
playground...
                     and the comforts
of a night with safety
psychadelic experiences
of a dream;
  never the void,
never the insomnia
or the dreamless "repose".