yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.