—given the torc of carnal resumings
which gnash my fibrous night-time musings
from the loom of fonted wisdom
and a wheel of word conversions—
the miser in my mental montage,
like a spoke fleeing speeds
that reel within muscled spin,
gates his ripe profusion,
compounding paradoxic lingual grin
in working meanings thin
between what worldly threads proceed.

ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn

She saves me/
Oh how she saves me/
She makes me/
She brings my eyes to rest/
Her memory fills my emptiness up, just enough, to turn away all the demons/

She breaks me down/
Oh how I do too/
We both have our problems/
And those problems hate the thought of “us”/
Everytime, no matter what said, we never split, we know our codependence/

I am not a love poet/
I think myself too down for pure love/
You know, Love, that we are pushed and pulled by those around/
That they doom us for our very love/

And we are saved by eachother/
We will be the death of eachother/
They will rip us into pieces the second they find proof/
But can we let that hate, be a constant reminder of how strong you hold on to me /
And how strong I’ll hold on to you?/

She really does make me/
She will never not be warming my mind/
She is going to be the death of me/
And I love her for that

i hate talking about darwinism
outside the realm of the individual,
i can encompass darwinism
with a sense of individualism
but what we're being sold is a collectivisation,
an economic model, and eradicating
personal theological practices will not help:
i like the algorithm fluctuations
between 1 (existent) and 0 (non-existent)
it's a bit like a paradoxic: Siberia...
Sahara... Antarctica... what's the other
hot alternative? a Jacuzzi in Las Vegas?
but when darwinism looses its individualist
approach, and tries to collectivise...
we're talking my grandfather's youth...
idolatry, communism, or both exchanging,
intertwined... all the entrepreneurs in a furore
while the share prices on Wolf St. gave way to an avalanche!
or in kindred tongue, via Mafia:
boom bara boom and spaghetti Bolognese -
brains for marbles, Don Quixote with napkins
in his cheeks for the Oscar-winning accent...
and i guess your landlady was named Frizzy Mary
like some ******* cocktail.
(question mark is missing due to innuendo irony
of pronunciation prolonged without, irony -
plus no soprano would read poetry
to mind spotting that gesture...
there's no stage, no spotlight, no crowd, no applause...
it's poetry... you can prance in flamingo ******
and interpret as much as you like...
if the poet isn't there to ramble about copyrights...
you can take it as your own:
without the poet: his poetry is yours, and you too, an ****...
now translating this metaphysics
into physical terms invokes
variably a circumstance of: you're a cannibal... so say bye bye
(go on, give a wave) to vegetarianism.)