Saturday, July 29, 2017


i am asking you that i don't feel
this guilt: humdrum, well-met age
quod agis and stammerer of script
and caricatures, beholden unto my
insidious professorship and moved

timed excelling scholarship.. but
pollen and shimmers jemmy herself
with the accord of angels' and in
future there'll've been books-- a
bluish blush that reveals the war

of breathtaking beauty, wait that
isn't a war, it's a cry of life &
conquering, with magnetic patois,
and as always the long goodnight;

but all of that remains unmeaning
given the lacunæ that phonetical-
ly prosify the parodic chapelling
that the grown-into-boys are mut-
tering under their words, as if i

had made a mask, and couldn't en-
joy the dream pop anymore-- taken
its toll, and kneeling recollect-
ion with alternative tracklisting
and film, if i may '68, and i do:

the baby was born on the nineteen
like a skull surrounded by flesh-
es that were free radicals almost
qualia in the perceptionist withs
green and never dried, how droll.

No comments:

Post a Comment