Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Uncontrollable as harness, dim as starvation
I am aware of the clasped book-keeping
  of jewesses, acquiring bitterly within wild glances
I can smell the work
  of the will
Rises and wanes, but
  there is no death
    because of this mouth
My lip reach in the past
A bared sinister sand-bank peers
  from an anxious noise at a various
    steamer of nervousness
I conceive the
  ribs, delightful as
I move in
What am I to make of this
  man, like unhappy aunts?
Seem while I reject
  you in the spring
Carry darkness in your thirst
Another individual is withering in the
  hurried notice, withering
    and arising, a fascinating seat
Particular and terrible
Mysterious and quick
Hopeless and hopeful
Sad and glad
Front and back
I take what rests for you
That flight is yours
Although I am gloomy,
  I intermit myself, a sort of step
I lose my sunshine

--Robot X, 1223.

"Tacitus is a sort of waterfall over which Classical Latin literature takes a last gloomy and splendid plunge." --J A K Thomson, Irony (1927)

    "Nascar Vampire Romance"

Though old old wrongs stand charged
With breaking obsolescence
On this bright day, logic
Has trumped the irrational
More. Write in vermilion
Arabesques of the dove.

Joy eke for the heretic
And for the underdog;
Speak the last mokita;
Let this miasmatic
Fury hard as jasper
Yield to clarity.

Again we will honor
Ourselves. It is enough.

Tempora mutantur. (Mine.)

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