get ****** first --
    alright, where to now?

something's wrong, more so
different. brash-lashed
lethargy. biding patience
as its *****; not keen to
waiting. especially if there's
understanding of procrastination
when patience is non-necessary.
rush to waste; ****, that's perfect.
******* perfect poetic self-illumination.

sun rising; wail the
sirens of recognition.
tat-tatting away frost.

i am a ****, yeah;
i am an *******, oh yeah;
to resume for all.

******* cold. early
tea season snow; sun sets soon.
season to retreat.

broad as a Judas,
not yet frozen in beast's mouth.
sandals; snow and ice.

eatting bread to sustain
when days run head-long
and redaction of preservation
runs rampant. smiling,
season changing mentality;
that of slight insanity.
never stonewalled even
by sane and keening mind.
not leaving to spite the
long-dark's cyclical reaping;
to glide the ice this time 'round.

dawn sun rising. done.
universal, chilled to bone;
breathing eternal.

shivering autumn;
patient ever patient. waste.
down the road, fleeted.

i need to see the sun rise this day;
for feet elucidated of patterns
followed upon an earth. wearied
or aching, knees to find
rest on Katahdin's summit;
fictionalized place of birthed sun.
now mythos, now dawn and
an arrow sure to have missed
the moon's lover. fired
by childhood mockery
while birds awakened song.
i need to see the sun rise this day;
for eyes be witness of intri-
cacies entwined upon an earth.

mornings grow longer;
another sun setting out for
a coming long dark. presence
of alacrity necessary. fatigued
by heat, no more macadame;
no more July. seeking spring
and the click-clack before arrival;
the walls are well-pinned and ready.
presence of focus sloughs away.

iconising by her walk
averting sight when shawled
female comes 'round corner.
on-ward, foot-looker, shaming
self due to abundance; shaming
self due to ennui of purpose.

into space with stares
while they fleet along foot-path;
a week's time till it's been
twenty and six times round. and
distraction of perfumed air lingers,
ending season towards thought
that what will come will run on
leaving syllables pathed out
even though return is not expected.
return never expected; actually,
**** Expectations of memory.
reality, now is further truth of
memory than receding ages.

antithesis - night.
darkened Eastern sky before
revelation day.

again hot maca-
dame; sun warmed back. shadow leads
east. dewed fresh cut grass.

Borges; this one
starts by your name.

fate did not want us;
fate wanted our words;
for yours to question mine.
to disenfranchise was its
goal on that July-ending day
in that smoke-fogged bar.
i shot true and drank with
heavied hand. you approached.
random-heaved spine, and you
were coverd by butterflies.
asked of life and responded:
      i owe the Universe some
           ******* poetry.
the question reciprocated but
you were found without breath.
time found us parting
with civilized talking of a
pre-determined clandestineship.
our fate quelled in that bar
on that July-ending day.

i owe the Universe some ******* poetry.

scarred and marred of arms
and soul; waiting to heal
knowing can only flip on
owned heel. slip a bit while
rushing with lil' mlle in back-
ground smilin' imperfection
and seeing all loss possible;
knowing, as always, perfection
as the greatest joke. then laughing,
denying self-owned scrying eyes.
then another, her strut offset by
sky way too blue in in an early morning.
body contrasting,
blinding eyes long dead to vision.

eighty-eight, light breeze,
dusk, gentle swaying branches;
balcony sitting.

sitting on steps while
laundry dries. head aches
from time between last
rest and next; the concussives
haunted a skittish-dreaming
mind. hallucinating footsteps
while alone, but nothing
worse than demons seen
walking the streets of dawn.

three day rain, odd to
see the flooded plains
in place of prairie choked
and lit; brightening night.
chilled wind stirs humid
days, sun foresought.
forced to sleep a
few days more.  and:
'i never see the
devil, but i do
see demons.'
stated as people walk the
spring streets covered to
cease rain from drenching.
refusing natural occurence.

after noon, awake now
for eight hours with
another twelve awaiting.
a sweating summer for
advancement of 'talented
young author'; reading,
writings, and ennui towards
those not wanting to be
found in sight. Lucien
stabbed his twice in the
chest, then weighted and
drowned the body feigning
dead. insanity claimed,
a brilliant success to freedom
after emaciating and claiming
another's mortal soul. claimed
was blood-stained Lucky Strikes,
and Lucien smoked the last one.

shirtless on porch,
beer and smoke after
days of filth. now,
washed body, cleansed
mind, though fretting
tightened rope of the
self-fettering variety --
taut enough for to
never be found complacent.
one of many a mortal sin
being cycled by this mortal
vessel. indulging in denial that
everything is one, and one is
nothing, and circular rhetoric is
nothing more than the semantics
of trying too hard to not try.
creating symbolism with
understanding the reaping
could never be perennial --
forming rituals to coincide with
the now, yet without devotion of
pious ages past. this in know-
ledge that once the flame dies,
none will be re-lit.

constant staring at scribblings
on the wall, wasting time. pages
stayed with tape and tacks with
words having found understanding
of how the Universe ticks --
*******.
thoughts scrawled before first
past life, put there by hand of
hopeful idealism. writ before,
then enacted through guise of
terrible excuses --
*******.
movement through with attempted
realization, and refusing quarter
for ends to selfish means. then
prying image to subjugate logic.
then onward selfish movement --
*****.
abated a time, then in the fourth
past life, perhaps sought retained.
though all lives cry out for adap-
tation. all crying out to leap,
to find the next waiting, the
one to find the prior salient --
digresser.
fourth found temporary per-
manence with excelling
from deceitful path traversed.
the changing of names follows
change from di- to noc-turnal,
with distance never relinquishing
hold that follows image of sub-
jugation --
metamaniac.

tired in the pre-twilit
hours. night spent decon-
structing sentences, rearr-
anging syllable, and pen
marking the superfluous
for removal. and each self-
critical redaction is a
waning on this soul. and,
those thoughts erased,
nothing more than slivers
of soul to be erased - to cease.
though continuing, with
though and soul that emanates
without acknowledgment of death.

I am rich
I’ve used my blood
like an extravagance

An archetype of oralcry
whose silence
               smells of cheap wine
A poetman
become an olding messenger boy
O silver tongue of spiritus!
I whoop it up
       in all my wealth
              like Great Mercurio
                      twirling his white ribboned caduceus
                                             in heavened air
Bathed & gowned
               by the Pifs of Prophecy
Asoak in a tub of soft flashes
               I step into talaria
And into my hand
               the twined winged wand was wound

I sat on the toilet of an old forgotten god
and divined a message thereon
I bring it to you
       in cupped hands

listen. steal what joy you can
when living this violent and
short life. a single time-line --
a period lived -- is an epoch
ruminating with none.
we are cats awaiting guts
strung -- whole intestine, specific --
for better resonance from hallowed
body. from hand-crafted hollowed mass.
perhaps this gutted vessel imbibed
the desk-liquor with hope and
want for muse of mans' own hands.
perhaps John Henry split my heart,
and i seek retribution with pointless
pen strokes. smoking, intention
broke from form, if only to deceive
that these hands will never callous
climbing mountains. will never
rip wide this chest. will never
witness in true this full-moon heart.
perhaps stubbornness will prevail,
per chance I will be found
witness of the ball-lightning
striking valley walls and boulders,
perched ageless, are haven sought.

large beer, with time to
waste. gulping in hopes
at abating stagnant
feel of current existence.
cold and clear night with Spring
hiding 'round the corner
ready to stab out perpetual
cycle for existence. such a
shaming from titled time-
spanse of weather by its
coming and going without
even illusion of choice.
(suppose the Universe never
had a major role in Romanticism)
suppose space will never find
need for periods defined through
titles; suppose man finds
comfort in definitions and syllabic
expression. haikus are, after all,
a buffer between worlds.
digressing with another cigarette,
knowing shouldn't what with
breath being true connection of
worlds. quality of being alluded
to quality of connection and a
vessel's sense of existence.
then, taking time to inhale,
knowing breath given finds
caustic continued life. realizing,
a drowning man cares naught for
quality of final fighting gasp.

resting, cross-legged; cigarette
smoke rising - ***** lit den-
esque situation. nothing, up
from bottom but knowing the
superfluous. phoenix reference
and unnecessary adjectives
go here.
                                            (lapse)
body aches, lack of sleep.
vessel ill-treated with
absolute knowledge. all
this torn muscle must
rebuild stronger. penance;
words to get by.
                                            (lapse)
in-line, even when the lines
ran dry. clever with no more
thought, and patient always.
something certain about
breathless expression.
                                           ¡Salud!
and last sup of whiskey. and.

to oh sweet nothins. to
sitting cross-legged kinda
bluesin', mostly boozin'.
desk-liquor now found
floor-liquor, feelin' a faux
pas here. kinda like a hoodie
over sweater, but that's all
some urban legend. digressing
with complete definition loss,
and stopping when called out.
                                            (lapse)
venturin­g on when foot snag
leads to caught trip. going back.
about ten and eight times
'round, when the sun was to
be overthrown. of when scree
led to blooded footpath home.
starting points are always
turn mythology, and that point's
Muse haunts rest of followed fate.
                                            (lapse)

venturing out, early morning -
closer to pre-noon - for smokes
and beer. seeing the gathered
rain in ditches, watching how it
flows by how the mud ebbs.
standing at side of road waiting
to cross as a layer of water develops
on jacket. gas station, gave the
woman a ten. she returned a ten and
three saying it was a twenty given;
corrected her, felt like a ****. left the
ten on counter and exited. standing,
waiting to cross again, cop, cop. they
continued on. ( funny, the things
noticed after a long night ) crossed the
road and walking in a self-conscious
manner, cop. sharp right through
apartment complex onto washed-out
back alley. an old stomping ground.
came up sixty five cents short for beer,
and owner smiled,
        'We'll scrape it out of
               the vacuum.'
not sure if he understood the
magnitude of my appreciation.

patient waiting, time to
allow an ease from cacophonic
pupil dilation into a more
constrict perception of the
world around. rain falls
gentle, facilitating the
transfer, as low-fi ambiance
jams on. some thunder in
distance, paling in comparison
to the vocal sparks in the night.
flittering and wisp-like, urging
ever forward. urging:
         'Come out of this a mess,
                  or not at all.'
manifestations, much as Red-Eye,
enticing to come up and dance with
death. to keep the measure through
turn for turn and twist for twist.
know the hooded Death missed
time again, giving the
                '. . or not at all'
                         another chance
to strike true. another chance to
set the eyes out in feast, when
morality shall be felled and the
vocal sparks sublimate to ever
only being rare thunder in the
distance. with flash of luminescence,
storm never given chance to weather.

“train tracks claim Christian.”
starting with statement from
a dozen past lives’ back,
ruminating on his comment:
    “you speak as if your
      life is already over.”
and yes, my words conveyed
ring contempt of future seen
through these old-soul eyes.
seen – vision inters experience –
with a soul blooded by existential
understanding. and staring at
fixed point of cell’s wall,
questioning myself aloud:
    “what happened to
      this monastic wanderer?”
simply responded in thought,
response of breathless word:
     that is not your purpose
     in this rebirthing. and,
    “IT WILL NOT BE NEAT. POP”
that once barefooted vagrancy
in time of an innocent ideal-
ism, carried through years,
brought honest acceptance
that self-destruction is all we
can ever be certain of. and
if any rule governs the lives i run
footloose through, that is most
hopeful of all, for reconstruction
can and always follows in short
step. coming from vagrant bare feet to
hoping sight not being blinded like
the many listless eaters. and i sit
out, waiting for tracks to build
themselves in directions that in
end only led away from a pure
dawn’s rising sun. awaiting the
meticulous ponding where the
universe might provide haven for
this lotus eater. and once again,
in time of innocent idealism – again,
having learned falsifies – i choose
self-destruction so that i might
come to a reconstruction whose
foundation is not sole reverie.

writer's block, tripping,
killin' dragons a whole life.
inspiration. ****.

thoughtless and lamed with
want for comforting sleep.
though, without willing
dedication to lie down along-
side sensory deprivation. yet
willing enough to accept the
seven-yard stare benzo addicts
view the world by. how she
glazed the world by, and then
said that developing parasite of
child had no father. claiming it
immaculate while those milky
hazel eyes refused to meet level.
she was always knelt in prayer
of god. that being personification.
that being, a night ****** up with
no chance at memory concerning
the divine touch of ******’ deity.
refutal cut short by egress thru
balcony door to rain ***** upon
neighbor’s windshield. claiming
illness, but knowing she had lost a
race against tolerance shone from
deadened come-on eyes. returning,
graceless, she sought the rocking chair
and structured her breathing. head
leaning against rest as her thinned
figure nodded while murmurs begging it
immaculate convulsed from pursed lips.
her, praying of ******’ deity to again
avoid end’s sole darkness.

ebbing, glass of whiskey.
cigarette lit while vessel’s
tummy wails away what
with its unfed loneliness.
two months out, about that
by now. anyhow. paletted
sleep bringing afternoon
awakening, and a walk
with peripherals on view
over shoulder. waiting for
past lives’ names to be
called out in order to
settle some debt. the kind
left at large with a flee-
ting disappearance. no name
ever spoken, eyes on guard
over shoulder. watching –
guarding – another strive at
the rekindled want for
anonymity. more a continuation
of some loner’s morning vespers.
whispers from the microcastle
thrown through – thrown beyond –
balustraded stone into the
-macro.   four months out,
and this radiator hisses to
life. hisses to remind that
not all is free, nor guaran-
teed inherent. reminding this
vessel of wants to be
thirteen out. that far out,
realizing it’s been some time
since the lines have ran dry.
prolific, think the word’s
antithesis; no, only practice
expression of breathless words.
fourteen out, wanting of this
vessel’s christening to done
been blooded by thoughts
unspewed as eyes affix the
tiny shadows ceilings cast.

hello again odd-book,
been a minute since
breathless words have
fallen here. since this
hand struck words from
self-interred meter. and
longer still since pen-
aided conception has glown
through adverbial muck.
    and again odd-book,
with pages of many facet,
resentment is not found
when returning to
             the Universal.
repentance with slurred
words – with qualming hands –
never again to feel necessitation
when returning home. when
returning with seriousless
vanity to witness some re-
flection of age since past.
    and here odd-book,
has been created metic-
ulous noise. here has been
beauty expressed, alongside
glory’s antithesis. here be-
came an ‘I’ that is new,
that is ruined and interregna,
that’s in whole encephalic.
    and here again, odd-book,
       “i am dandelion,
            i am magnolia,
               i am albatross."

“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.

no where near the 24th hour even though
my hand shakes jittery. pen drawing right
to left, hand of the uncertain quivering.
i focus a bit too much and found this self set
unnerved after having been awake far longer
than i tend to make usual.
     (plenty are the unusual in this
          the current long dark)
so much longer than usual that i've resorted
to gin and orange juice, and it's been a long
while since such this encounter. perhaps
my rhythm is lost, perhaps this is my path in
life for the time being, perhaps eternity will
find me answered.
     (and in a new year the days
          grow longer once again)
and losing track of the hours, of the days,
when the greater portion of time is spent in
silence. but, in truth and whole, i never
failed to miss the unexpected moments that
interloped. and i rummage through the past
of yellowing notebooks - those coffee stained
and warped yet the words never bled. words
expressing thinking, drinking, and some
hazy hallucinations. of how a trio was
able to remove the world from me. and it was
fine. no real panic, deifiers only want to trim
a little fat. and these just happen to be my
scrawny days.
     (for the flesh lusteth against
                   the Spirit,
      and the Spirit again the flesh)
and it's awkward to attempt an explanation of
how i watch the static ripple across the ceiling.
after a few days, the eyes begin to desensitize
of the weather. after a few days, there is no
longer a sleep pattern; all that's left is to
become biphasic. and after these few days,
how is better to explain an inexpressible
than with words i don't quite understand?

expect digression, misspelling,
self-formed words. and for this
to be a long one, therefore not
worth reading.

ten hours, but of awakening for
twenty or so. drinking wine from
bottle to gauge consumption, but
also because that's how one
should show how much of a classy
mother-****** they are. drinking
and re-reading, the prior being
some kinda sin for a writer.
   of Hemginway:
      'Write drunk, edit sober.'
rules worth breaking and many
a lack of luck permeates. and
this one writes for you. canvas-
flapped this loss of arm. that's
a prior reference, by the way.
he was ruined of them; ruined
a curse propagation brought him.
to rise and wage however a
******* could, yet that however
brought an end in entirety. and
after a summer sweating, and
after a once and always absol-
ution of this winter madness.
    (the only cure has ever been
          isolation and deprecation)
always fleet-footed in the stressed
moments of the everyday. and
writing here, writing of this the
last few pages, expressioned in
particular voice. recanting
never these sacred art, defending
never the choices made nor whims
of soul or vessel. and breaking, and
influenced - to cite the adjective of
'inspired' - this phonetic will ounces
out restrained. restrained. next line.

quandering, pondering
and whiskey has become
first and only desk liquor. now
digressing to the Blue Eyed
beauty writ of this the final
page of notebook. and now,
reflecting on this early hour.
an hour when the goat's
head stares thru to soul
with always lifeless eyes. stares
thru this soul with lack of
energy, with entire days'
lack of consumption. and with
ease this one has been long
and gone in falsified attraction
of angelfaced Blue Eyed
matriarch; this one patriarch.
thought entirely conceived. contrac-
epted by reality of situation. by
reality in general sense, yet words
spew unfiltered with lingering hope
behind slanted smile. shying stares,
all the while watching from eyes'
corners. voices of all but her's
fall deaf; vessels otherwise mute to
concerns not of the Blue Eye's. and
here this one finds self lost to rom-
anticized thoughts knowing they can
be found sterilized via logic.
contradicting always, yet
no brass holding finger locked to
joint. and realizations of actual
place spears forehead; spears fore-
brain. disrupting what is preconceived
concerning entangled souls. hair falling
aside temples. point of restraint, this
one must end before depression catches
hold; this one calling abrupt ending.

hunger slates itself of this one's
vessel. demanding piety, demanding
existence. requesting change of
scenery, seeking change for
firm foundation. that of trench
burrowed deep and reinforced in ma-
ster fashion with land unfamiliar.

early morning funk,
cold comin' in, winter's here.
waiting the minutes.

realizing now, real-
ized always. souls empty found,
eyes see not behind.

ginning grins at end.
mind vacant, soul's been writ clean.
sins of pre-dawn bliss.

in same place as last writing, wondering
what context this end of sweating will
bring. what this one's lackadaisical - to
juxtapose, let's write Bardical - musings
are found to be. treacherous thoughts pa-
tterned, knit in pearls of alternating colors
from the many revelized experiences of the
months since fleeted. this one's catacombed
mind filled with ex-grievances, and a once
real question of primordial retaliation. of
how to revoke Nature's iron grasp thought
to be called deity's divined fate of this kilned
clay vessel. and wondering on creation, life
given only to spite slaves formed of fire. and
now to leave aside psychpomic thoughts, and
now to return to ground. to stand firm upon an
earth that is essence entirety of this one's base
of creation. only, blood absorbed in place of
retained in circulation. going back, traversing
thought, bringing forth the white man's implic-
ation as ruler of time though known always that
circulation must cease, must become no longer
fluid. and with history being that of the sole
victor. that of labeling, defining, forcing selfish
perception as truth. and this one realizes reason
in fire's hatred of earth. to need to burn out, to
need to consume, but fire lacks choice of will to
action. this one can never leave aside idyllic thou-
ght of a primordial war of elements merged.
digressing, even though the end must find full-
circle. I the Destroyer writing in hopes of finding
thoughts on We the Emerging, all the while
Gregorian has foreseen existence from time beg-
inning. guaranteeing only that structure will
survive time's ending. history of sorts pre-writ
day for day for week for years for aeons of never
ceasing circulation. all the while, victor shedding
for the earth to absorb. Thoth the great, the great,
the great; of lacking elemental composition. the only
one in this one's knowledge whom defies either
circulation of absorption. We the Emerging consume
of the firmament. He the great, the great, the great
witnessing from without the firmament. He the
ancestors taking trice-form to malleate clay from
perpetual fermentation. and digressing more, but
again stating the achievement of culmination of words.
this one stating understanding that perceiving self
as a psychopomp stems from earthen forged vanity.
and all writ is true in belief of prisca theologia.
perhaps this one's words are found to be Hermetic,
found defying interred ideologies as ink rushes to
awaken We the Emerging before dreaming mind
collides with the dawn. and perhaps only Nature may
be found as decided for those taking their cycles of
mindless bliss. and digressing, merging trained-thought
into the next. merged here to be found, We the Emergent
modernity with open palms for another's thoughts. and
here to be found, this one, of I the Destroyer choosing
a percepted chaos to the permanent pre-dawn bliss.

words through time-eyes,
and life thought left long
with mind for days while
this one sat deterring soul
from body in a foot-lost
night. sun's end, son's end,
and the day's typewriter
just hours from death of man.
awaiting knowledge of grou-
nded truth. ground vessel of
a soylent variety, without
thoughts on past word-loss.
summer existence, like young
girl's expectations of world's
blood left in trashcan. place the
heart, forced sweating to free self
of longer lost sleep. feel right, sleep
longer during the long dark. true
waiting and lack ******* reason
when this cat has gone, been got,
has lost a white-year of quiet memories.
times destroyed, knew to rise hip. knew
to rise onward with cigarette lit of matched
flesh. sense the repetition, remember
away the flesh. blue smoke of fire in the
long dark, in the coming white-year.
sense the memory, ending waste but
still losing knowledge. gaining chaos of
thirteen out, of this one's will to be six out.

Morrison mourning,
wailing quarter-century,
death puts forth footfalls.

losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
     'I went out myself into
     an immortal body, and
     now I am not what I was
     before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.

day is coming, rain
all the night. tears shed from high.
day is running, gone.

early morning and
we will make it fast
with the words and
training awakened
thought. of Heaven,
of Hell, of destruction
concerning elder proph-
ecies and speculations on
the existence of man for
the past couple aeons.
and prevalent forces flow
through energetic lines of
muscle mass, each a heart-
string of the wholly vessel
not yet turned carbon. and
now we repeat of prior state-
ment of I the Destroyer.
consuming of the firmament
so that the rest of the yeast
is thrown into some Darwinian
existence. (of which, I probably
eviscerated actual meaning)
consume, consume, and move
onward towards a larger chunk
of the firmament. and early mourning,
early turning on of the greater light
that is the electrical charge of
this vessel's circadian rhythm.
and moving on, moving back into
self-reticence. and i give myself,
i give myself alone. and please,
oh please, destroy me of what
i once was of a past life.