such that... life continues... regardless
for concern for / of personal whims,
farces and tiresome tribulations...
i'm doubly drunk with grief -
i don't know whether i'm moruning
or drinking: perhaps both,
perhaps neither...
the children in the nearby school are
persistent in entertaining
a break from corrosion rubric mantra...
the same desolate crow heaves out
a harking a barking an anything
but its original: no substitute...
i'll baptise myself by taking a shower...
i hope to forget taking a ****...
i'll drink enough to **** something out...
the world retains its
objective rigidity and lack
of nuance: death's grip forever "realistic"...
but now i don't care to mind
shadow or bow to concrete
evidence of antithesis telekinetic
stones in an omni- litany of a deity...
the lesser servent is adorned with
its crown - such glorious ruling
of ceremony...
i ought to find relief being a confused
expression of:
hangover mourning -
perhaps i drank too much
to numb the pain:
i drank too much to prevent myself
from tear-kneejerk-reactionary: absentee-,
perhaps chewing on some
peppermint...
hard not to pretend to have not
outmaneuvered death
for a ****** with ol' vanity moi...
in the old saying:
it is, done...
         completely: complete -
ouroboros "tamed"...
               after all: death is nothing new:
no nuance, no glaring need for
comparison: no competitive
subjective strategy -
a barrenness of uniqueness is
this numbing extract -
           if only death were a sentence
unto amnesia -
yes... life continues...
objectively, automated regardless of
what "things" might break...
with its omni- litany:
the deity resounds with
perseverance:
don't tame yourself with
an allowance for
claustrophobic subjectivity -
there are forever echoes of life dasein -
forever new
unfathomable elsewheres...
not here, not now...
     grieve for an hour or two...
but return to something
of life...
and veneer and: do good practicality...
you were not supposed
to express the grace
and pragmatism of a mourning
of a tree:
willow or no willow...
oak, birch or pine...
           far less crooked than
a crucifix to be later adorned
in gold and rattled around with
history like some driftwood
atop plum copulas of arch-nemesis
stone upon stone...
hollowed out by castrato choirs.
here, now... i will listen
to the earth breathe...
as i will call the wind your song
to boot.