this was never a history
to be worth a loiter...

it could have been been more...
it could have been
a puritanical study
of etymology...

when that ****** word...
a burden a heaving sensation...
a sysiphus' cool...

i wanted to break
its even to an even:
i wanted to break it even...
nonetheless there was
always a sense:
and beyond a sense -
the reality of a leftover...
the demanded to be
served by an epitaph...

to be gorged in politico
by a class-orientated englishman!
to never speak
like some opportunistic Mongol...
drinking horse blood
and eating raw dough
with no... with no yeast!

anything! anything the worth
of flour, water, sugar or salt...
heat... but no yeast!

i want the sound of raindrops...
of piano...
better a piano than a violin...
when they usher my shadow...
into a hope for an indentation
to be compensated by my footsteps...
footsteps,
indentations... upon the shore...
come the tide of time...
the sea... and amnesia of water...
the dementia of the lake...
that forbidden echo...
that razor-sharp mirror of the kirk....
of... how a celebration
of silence could be better be understood...

how best to demand loitering...
should no individual scope of
excellence be mitigated...
from no of these people:
from none of this land...
i waited...
i waited and perhaps kept my shadow
clinging to an "although" disappearing
body of "perhaps"...

it was all rather ravenous:
why is the raven like writing desk?
why are you a raven at a writing desk?
because you are hunched...
you're a hunchback...
and that's why: why is a hunchback
akin to the raven?
because... the raven is like a writing desk...
is because of the hunch... the back...
you can write on both...
there's a 13° *****...

they share the same writing ease-of-*****...
i don't require this riddle anymore...
i require: a choir of obsolescence...
god minding...
in some vacating concern for...
that limbo belief in the man born from god.