By criss-cross catalysis,
Pillaged from memory—from pill.
Paralysis of analysis:
Stuck inside, and outside still.
Eyes locked,
No sign,
Neck straight, head cocked,
Eye-socket lined,
Long curved spine.
Focus inside outer locus,
A junk of mental hocus-pocus.
Bogus begs the beggar be,
Rather than fathomed,
Of withered crocus.
Lillith spillith an eider-dew;
Upon the eider-down.
Willith he then simmer, stew,
A ‘neath the Summer New?
Winter fell, and song-man cryeth,
To’ve been and not much else.
Itching on an itch till nigh death!
Approaches oceans inside of shells.
Echo yonder Spring in light,
And sight might be delight.
While still the tactile tends too trite,
Yet flickered, ever glowing bright.
Eyes ‘hind,
Blind mind,
Find neither sign,
Nor time,
By petty dime.
Found ground,
Deep down,
6, puddled clown,
Without beast at behest.
By liver drowned to dialysis,
Watered words upon the sea,
Crissing-crossed heaves—phthisis,
Waits for numbed catastrophe.
Since this is number 9
lets see how many i can take with me
here that engine purr
they put my friends eyes in their roads
What is the catalysis
maybe its demonic pawsession
The image of a feline at the north pole is cathartic
catch me if you can
a marginally redemptive micro biography
offhandedly ushered into this reverie
by Ellipsis the muse of all highway roundabouts
my first impressions at age minus 20 minutes
stuck in the birth canal of a woman
whose deeper psychological structures
think she is withholding permission
her screaming was possibly misplaced
since dying was only seemingly inevitable
not knowing what a scream is
I am struck by the echo in the delivery room
which gives me my first indication
of a space that is filled with something other
myself presently possessing nothing other
only a great body-long dimensionless squeezing
amplified by the gentle tug
of my deliveryman's forceps
though possibly not so gentle
since to this day I am left with
dents and ripples upon my peanut head
which would constitute a turgid prose novel
for any Nazi phrenologist worth his calipers
apparently a mighty heave ho
and some cheer leading by the hovering nurses
released her death grip sufficient to the task
of birthing another potential carrier of civilization
into the world of sequence and insanity
I suppose all that future grunting
kinda got its start right here
Focus, the master key that unlocks
Stoutly locked doors to your future
Feeds on discipline that blocks
Distractions and fractious fractions in your culture.
Focus, the gismo that breaks
Deadlocks and tames dreadlocks
In your environment where reckless wrecks
Catalyse red herrings teeming with simplistic spokes.
Focus, the catalysis that fires up your determination
To soldier on in spite of red herrings
Threatening to derail your momentous mission
As your momentum disentangles itself from surrender strings.
Focus, the factory that fabricates strategies
Techniques and methods to realise your potential
As you embark full throttle on your mission despite elegies
Composed and crooned in celebrations detractors deem essential.