The Luv'sic' Waste of D Henry Allwein, Part I Snippet

(A Presentiment: two lost Wint souls alone converse, so mind the grown gap——Longshoreman’s Fall hearse.) "The last boat draws near, allow us depart." All aboard, all aboard—! "So Time has pierced now, as a bull's-eye dart." All aboard, all aboard—! I. On Nocturnal Sea Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. Err daylights bloom 'lorn chill blights, compassed ‘tween Lun' looms mire nights. Ghost of the gaze, that longing gleam, desirous of children all basked in dream. Come out of darkside hour houses. Fuego therei'goes and in the clearest porcelain sink is disappearing foam— I am become as foam gone away beneath heat that knows not of Styx, and boiling masses, those Midas ships. Set foot 'pon the Mount, its depths are chert, to discover, duly, the mind is dirt. For when The Ages laughed, her face was cask'd, and sept thru my clothes did seep at last. To see as not, belov'd, below, Return to me, O Stereo. Babe D. once asked where Daddy played, but Mommy sighed and wouldn't say. His friends all laughed, to his dismay, "Your father left you. You're a stray." "The seasons change, and so will I," down the street the youngster cried. But ‘ere you stand within that pot of stale air, a lone synth bouquet good for putting on airs. Oh, change has come—and come!—and gone. It is only dust on your stem so long as knowledge is long—as long as my unseen shadow. That was your cue, but those curlicues were never accused of that atom-less blitz. Longshoreman '95 held a tan-skinned fritz. Infatuated; temp'rary— alone within iCentury. Salubrious roundabout with Ahab at the helm; look sharply into her eyes— wherefore humanity's realm? You're A Monarch When It Rains, but you do not believe me. Through the motion sickness of soaking ginger in your fears my palms are a future sandbox and your snowy hair eclipses the sun... dark lace of lute that recoils at this desperado pulse. Perhaps—and I do not say this lightly— we are We beyond Two basked in Three. Part III wherein I become three degrees collapsed asunder as ghostlier trees hearkening elegance, but no ambergris… Like dusky Samhain clay figures that move without You t'ward that lone aerie smile of dust-lit eves. Origin, Origin, Maker's Man, Make a mistake As fast as you can.