Wednesday, July 27, 2016


wait for me, inspirer.. shall she
ever scale the squares, cubes any
way that cover my eyes, as if the
music of a choir: if i've master-
ed the fragrance of tears, yet we

owe and hold-- supervised surviv-
al and grotesques of grace: where
they have been subsisting they've
been insubstantiated and substit-
utions for what you really do not

mean, what doesn't float on zeph-
yrs and what doesn't emanate bud-
dhist from your breath (with even
burning, as insists, even) and my
heart can't burn my hand anyways;

i have to colour my eyes, frankly
bespoke in order to combat all of
the sick acquiescence which falls
our lot in any given generation--
there is a room in our house that

one can fall into if one wouldn't
take care, slurrism and the smoke
of pastoral freedoms i recommend-
ed to you and you to me-- tremolo
and vectoral vibration, vestalist

and your vestiges which shouldn't
bore me (and doesn't, and will we
ever reunite?) all the people are
rising up like the jazz of tonics
and saloons are the same as spas.

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