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Here I am,


In the first fling of youth-

In what sterile field did I find this anti-fecund missive?

This stretching of a hand, drenched in rubbery black; accompanied by a smell; a sewing, cloying end-platform.

If I lean over this precipice, does the parched land stretch to a rising mirage?

Or does it taper at a recapitulating vista before the headlands of my own Æterna?

How many cycles now? With how many hinterlands, and how many headlands?

Did I reach toward the question, then become abject before the limit of my limb?

Or did I feel around in Darkness, with a capital '?' in the face of the lucid meaninglessnesses?

Did I strive to touch a mark- or did I die inside a cloud?

Was it in the valley time stenches- or in the white snow of lifted Passions?

Here is a proximity:

The colour of reality is a nonsensical question.
The depth of the gyre is not a measurable quantity.
The light that springs unbound, with a wiling, tithen, syro illumination-
Does it make the Cathars redound upon a laddered absolution?

May the world allow my apocrypha?
Or am I repudiated before the grand narrative?

Each hallway;
Each Fuzon held orb of Basiliskery.

Did I give it a shot?

Was it worth a notch?

Am I sitting amongst friends?

Or in the depth of a drying fen?


Low-Brow, High-Sighted; Lending-Lovely, Leaving-Lonely; Refrain-Comport, Exstat-Deport; As at Peak, As Beneath; With, Withing Withouts; Is It Red, Is It Blue;

And is the grand life coalescing in you, And is the loud lie deafening to you?


I am sane, And I am plural.

I am you, As I am me.


Blistering in cracking skin,
Lodged beneath the galed porch,
Lined inside a briny mind,
Tethered to a fury,
Gifted through barmene,
Lathered with a scold,
Trapped amongst the unkept,
Lost without a head.


The wild wind is rising high,
And atmosphering these flickering bulbs,
And driving back the floor filled houses,
And paving over these concrete veins.


A bell tolls behind the mists of the Overimage.

Du Hast.

Dost Thou

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