A Jerky Reverie
A Jerky Reverie
Where is the moon just now?
The light shining from the sun
appears, to have blotted it out.
The stark darkness of a motionless
void, where atomic debris not seen,
passes
through it, violating solid state.
Harmonious discontent, disconcertedly
in serial fashion proceeds atonally
in a jerky reverie; weeping tearfully
musical notes arise in hesitance, seemingly
from nowhere, like faint smoke arises
from a fire, brooding, over irrelevance.
Why is the light so dim?
A serene moment, born alive, outwardly
gesticulating, silently swaddling a mindful
yet unarticulated and self-willed thought,
a thought which plummets over itself,
as over a precipice, steely, shortsighted,
perhaps longingly, into a discordant
pool of afterbirth, languishing momentarily,
recognizing its purpose, to enrapt, to give notice!
Who blotted out the sun?
As hairy beasts of long, long ago
tramped bipedal out into grizzly landscapes
where voluptuous volcanic teats
alined in all their glory disgorged
hot lavic, retch, painting again a textured
grit, a layer of time, stratified, new,
brilliant, flawed, awaiting encounters.
The bony beasts, brains now enlarged,
experienced, tooled up, science in
mind, recursive by design, calculating,
manipulative, mindful meditations
on control, edgy love slap, forthwith as a
dangerous impulse, unto itself and it.
Copyright © Dennis Foss | Year Posted 2018
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