Thine ideas and thoughts are
fine and thine alone, and
tumbled roughly like the roundel
of a river stone, jumpily who
follows after. Veiled in threats
and petulance of pestilence now
open, rounding 'bout the bend.
Your countenance abruptly ends
the question of successive ends.
It trends toward looking down
toward looking for unsightly sounds
to offer up as some reward for
counting beads as on, as on
the Abbot's rosary, whose heavy
cross is it's counterweight.
You cannot wait for it to come,
you cannot wait for all of this to
finally become undone.
I mounted—sadly—some
hilltop. And roughly for the grit
of path beneath me slipped
and slewed as if to say:
"This is not your path today.
My summit—for you—will
not afford an aerie-view
of anything—an empty till."
But climb I did unto it's crest,
and having fallen to my chest so
many times that that path's dust
could not be told from my shirt's breast,
I saw the view, and saw the land,
and saw the city's meager limits.
I saw trees around the church
holding setting sun in thickets.
Then I climbed down that self-same
path. I slipped as if on summer's
morning grass and slid—that
view not having prevented it.
Our honesty is sweet—though vaster
than a lake's face, stretching faster
farther unto to ones eye's limits
—thickly—as though limned in plaster.
Her gazing rankle went without that
night. And I went out despite it. To
swing and loll with all gauds on, and
drink until I felt no fright at it.
But my procedure's ordering collided
in discord when she—in the guise of
flocks of doves—came crashing 'round
to run my simple ship aground.
She stoked me through the solemn eyes
of any man with fey surprise.
But simple logic held no sway. I, my-
self regrouped to play upon malaise
that I felt naught, but anxious gout
encircling all my things about with
rancor, sweet and saccharine.
And frightened then, I turned and fled.
Not drunk at home, but dangerous
before this one goes out again
upon the night's slick sickly sight.
It came upon his house again.
They were sirens of desire,
wrapped around the mortal tower
of his only worldly power,
slinking quick, they came again.
I—there—would not let them in.
Very late was the hour of their arrival
with all the pomp of some revival tent.
In dresses best, the came, they said
at the behest of some distant friend.
His strength it quavered at their sight,
but let them in—a wicked night, whose
inky blackness could—would not relent.
For unto me
an apple tree is born
of want.
The sun sunk through the haze of Nod
alighted red with bloodlust of a very vengeful God.
Through the peeling drone of servos
torquing clockwork limbs about
as if their motions somehow held
intent beyond their programmed bout.
The light beyond was
brutal. It came through
all. It came through on
beach—the border of
land and sea. We
thought we knew all
about it. But we didn't
Actually the highest rung on ladder
was a fad. It bulbous fatter than
the fattest—than the fattest of them
all. And climbed and reached it
anyway. And supple, simply under-hand
and both feet when they reached it. Sand
rained down from somewhere up above.
Grinding wearing slowly down the biscuit-
joint. The
dove.
The sun sunk through the haze of Nod
alighted red with bloodlust of a very vengeful God.
Through the peeling drone of servos
torquing clockwork limbs about
as if their motions somehow held
intent beyond their programmed bout.
The light beyond was
brutal. It came through
all. It came through on
beach—the border of
land and sea. We
thought we knew all
about it. But we didn't
Actually the highest rung on ladder
was a fad. It bulbous fatter than
the fattest—than the fattest of them
all. And climbed and reached it
anyway. And supple, simply under-hand
and both feet when they reached it. Sand
rained down from somewhere up above.
Grinding wearing slowly down the biscuit-
joint. The
dove.
