I am near permanently enraptured by all that is
In a way like only two youngns’ alive and ravenous
Libidos ******* everyday can be and do
I have all the meanings of all the ancients wrapped in my skull
Shadows of memories that are not mine
On the brink of the precipice-come-project  
Along with other vague metaphors that are so trod
Upon that all we have left is the post-modernity of antiquity
Scrapped together to make a semi-legit piecemeal rendition
Of narrative to cling to
Because of course narrative is all we cling to
And its really just simple teleology
When you think about it
So why? And also What?
Also is? Also I’m lost now, everything
And having lost everything I find it easier to not care what others think
And aint that the rub
Because when you have people you care about you inevitably seek to please them
And only when you care about no one can you really please yourself
Or at least that vague notion of the self trapped in all our ambitions
And aren’t we trapped by our ambitions?

But enough of that because I was saying something else
There was a feeling in there somewhere that inspired me to write once
And it seemed very beautiful until I realized it had been done
So I sat back and laughed and did it anyway
Because there is a power in me that you do not know
And it exists in the rapture between words unspoken
The synapse between thoughts and the explanations
Of my various and pointless free associations
So I’ll take a walk now and become Walt Whitman
And no fear or loathing will stop this great wave
Our great wave in the speckled sea of Nihilation
Tis’ sublime that is the very notion of sublime
The thought that beauty is thought
And other failed attempts at describing the impossible