worm that wiggles inside my wrist
felt and pressed unto the warm,wet grass
of Scotland's afternoon,
kissed to the dirt, connected to the rest
of it's kind, bent backwardly
to the continious pulse that represents all
simontanious life, stripped of skin and cause,
bound to be free one day, bound to swarm
like ink through water:
the universe's tinny pulse met between
its ying and yang;
built on reverbration and
endless enough to makebelieve to be perfect
for the moment,
silently calling, running across death ears
at the breadth of a witch's sowing needle,
cosmic dice, archaic ruin, a thousand tunes
rang mute with shyness,
construction sites,
royalistic virtues centuries had and quickly
forgotten. AI
whispering doom, gloomful suicide of
reason--Amazon choked
in mucky ash, all lost and pretending
otherwise.
History is but an abstract concept,
but nostalgia
relentlessly reserves it's rosey pulse
and ties us pleasantly closer to the great,universal
grave.
My poetry-break didn't last very long. Sorry.