I don't write, I paint myself blind with words...diogenes herded...ignorance...gilded cages...filling up on beauty unleashed...free will's maddening fractures...eyes that need to smell to see...
January 19, 2016
what poem said was
what poem said was
" play the angles in surrenders,
let never-ender(s) be when cloven-hooved
such as deer, clear across meadow(s),
glen edge peer at you...
curious about
the bramble and forest
its curtained a-waiting,
the bent heads, listening to you,
as well as what listens to you, listening too,
to what listens to and for shapes, doors,
scent-less bones, souls' foray-tones,
and what can be honed, in the shadows
when Winter theatrically regales
wax mooned in magic..."
- -
---------
- -
<meanwhile, you're drunk, realizing, that a movie is playing>
The film is called...
'church old holiday cinema'
wealth pursuance
ribbon blood social
cranny to kite string
life as an on-the-go
incremental certain
conflicted with
something or another...
slow siphoning
days go by
you count
by calendar
and calls, you worship
any and all
blissfully ignorant folly
you find yourself
leaping into
in order to pretend
you can see
the patterns
they give names to
in the chaos...
for purity and science, eventually
maybe even today, you might say
you have faith enough to believe
your free will is a dangerous thing...
and then, when given reins
and director's chair
beauty dares you further
into rabbit holes...
this is the intermission, go pee now
upside down umbrellas
you want, rains
from market or house
of wares, stare
at them still, do you
wet and cold
head to toe
lips almost blue...
mercantilism was
centrally banked human's
begged beginning(s)
measuring control...
enlightenment
stuck around
just to see, our
ghosts and dreams
get through until
all the credits rolled...
EJR ©
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ReplyDeleteThank You and indeed I may bleed trumpet and violin parts but sometimes it becomes music, though mostly it is what may stick, for a bit, upon the walls, Rorschach butterflied that(s), which are the what(s) and words of salt and iron ages, in my cupped palms, being thrown...
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