[dismal celebration]
Hidden Blossom Falls through Celestial shaft in cast iron Drift whose broad Dusk was just asking about you and your fine arbor of promises, the one that also has planted in it by the Meadow of merry seeing the Phrase Weeping Horizon, a bleary bouquet that displeases the Judge of non belonging when it claims to also harbor mastery of a chaste Mist and hell Moonlight, shedding in the sides of her mind Petals Dramatic and Star Ripples that could fold a circumstance a couple more times than you might expect, you, labor, a new country with used gospels that pass the black Night over in the Secret Bliss of Despair, you the tight spitter in spotted furs that hold tight the Footnotes of Euphoria that furnish these damned tales that struggle into your hot, sharp ears that spend many long years pondering this sentence, trying to see it as a minor skirmish in the big long fight to strum Grace into Heartache, a Melancholy Lullaby to shoot oneself with during the forthcoming earthquake of Nostalgia, the ugly Passions that imbibe pencils with manes and get down to business, and get busy with Reverie on the veranda, spew Serenity all over the other side of the .444 light eating animal ribbons thrumming and hunched across one's own sweet lynx of Solitude, punching Sorrow with a Tenderness so Tranquil it wonders how it'll ever go on Wondering how to stop Yearning for that Ancient Ephemeral Eternal Fragment of an Obsidian Moment in the Nowhere of Midnight Infinity, stop smelling for that Alluring Aroma of chrome Twilight that Chimes the whole valley with sick crickets and constant protection from the evil Harmony of mockingbird Echo, a harmony so Hushed here in the meadow of merry seeing that its faint bedmudled Lilt nearly plunges to its birth in the burning Silence of cracked mountain Murmur opened by the red whims of that poor old Abyss that Dreams it as Enigmas’s best young woman.
this pome is an attempt to destroy the universal by scooting it so next to itself that gets embarrased by its own self proximity, and not only that but self proximity itself and by proxy seeks in tiredly new sequence of substitutions or a window seat like a wilted flower and being that universal it taps out a response within the laws of conventional connection it has either rejected or submitted to and been rejected by, a series in which it seeks and finds weak comfort or weakness itself comforting the faithless jump it makes when the image takes a day offline to touch a very, very cold surfaces while the lamp sways a little, haha harassed haha by a yes haha that tries to explain the explanation as a welldigger's ass for cleverness and missing the point imperially, citing the mercurial glory of rectal agression, and gets carried away, all the way home, right back up against itself.
☆