3rd night of your typical ordeal...
sober then tired
then drunk from tiredness
then sober from tiredness...
I would have never admitted
O the luxury spent
Scribbling to no avail a veil
and it isn't even winter yet
so the air is the cool and warm
zenith of autumn
with the sun being somewhat
forgiving...
if only I had all my fingers attired
to a keyboard not this twinkle
and twiddling thumbs on a shmartfoonz
on my way to "work"...
any association with arguments
of personal space dissociated
crammed into a late running northern line
just four stops from Morgate
to Elephant & Castle...
two blonds not a nightclub dance floor
awkwardness...
and the whiff I got...
of their hair... soapy and not...
a perfume of candyfloss...
and more...
that absinthe soaked sugar cube
being set alight and caramelised
on a spoon... a ****** a heroine of scents...
and oh how I miss sleeping in the night
the agony of a farewell to the sultry hours
where one can become infuriated
with so many details the day allows
whereby the same details in the night
become o O so monstrously bigger...
the senses seemingly dimmed
but also more acute...
all that could be missing is a ritual
best associated with the prancing of
naked witches at a sabbath-*****-****...
came the night from the 17th to the 18th
of September: super harvest moon...
where the wolf to the past participle
of: no... past simple... to (have) been...
a wolf? So what would be the past
complex?
For all the rigidity of grammar...
     a flow of language that doesn't abide
by rules: each to his own version of
a workaround collapse: imperfectly strident.
Nocturnes no. 16 in F major
John Field...
                                 and until 7am...
that rubric of songs on the radio
simply overflows with minutes of
meaning in the hours of banality.