Saturday, August 12, 2017


nevermind the bibliography, and i
dub us with echo: the enchantment
is neverending, as in it spilling
molten dollarbills into openmouth
children, who've done nothing but

grow-- hypnogogia, lift my arms &
stand me up against no wall, for-
getting to give me a cigarette or
a television call, and however my
rubbings rebound, play it the way

it lays: giving grief over sunset
that allays the stars and the big
star is always the sun, basically
you're got the starring role that
insinuates itself into the black;

symbol, so precious and sweet the
alarmclocked percussion, becoming
something like a perpetual-motion
machine made out of fire, whereas
the visions and illuminations are

all cooled, settled gentle shower
of inactivity that alerts us none
the less to the vibrato reverber-
ation made radium and discoverer,
just a mess of logic that pinning

down between boards doesn't mask,
recover, improve, inspire, or re-
dound with any colour or sensuous
inessentialities-- everything was
already there when we were small.

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