i always thought that between life and death
i'd wake into one of my dreams...
the last dream i had, i was on an oil tanker,
and the sea was raging, waves as tall as colossus
of rhodes, feeding every tilt every turn,
waves as tall as the colossus of rhodes...
i'd rather die and sleep, than wake in one of these dreams.*
i woke and remembered
there was no whiskey left,
and realised i was to pull
through the night on will
alone, a few hours prior
i was sitting in a depth of
forest that allowed me to peer
into a street of passing traffic,
i started to sniff autumnal
leaves fallen, took to a young
tree and broke it in half,
peering at the scythe moon
encircling a fading globe of its fullest
example in between the extending
birch synapse oases, skeletons
of never attached to tendons and muscle,
if it sounds beautiful, it isn't,
there in the forest, the night,
the decaying scent of leaves...
i don't even think it's today, or yesterday,
or tomorrow, i think it's a never,
but it still happened,
but of course there's the rubric of
memorising a "distinguishable" monday,
when there isn't one, whether it's the month
of may or the month of march,
whether a digitalised two-thousand something
anno domini or preceding centuries of quote:
the dark ages, the renaissance, romanticism,
existentialism, don quixote all alone,
and something about chaucer the believer of
Alfred, the only mythical king of england /
i.e. only a few people deserve the logic of myth,
extending far into the abyss of time,
akin to the other logic (theology), which is
reserved for gods... who always seem to argue
their whereabouts with epileptic blinding spontaneousness:
just so someone can gain wealth by the non-existent argument.
