Thursday, February 18, 2010

"micro torc" (Shaxp cxxiv.)

A distant change no chiming words can state,
the poet in the reader yet unfathered,
seems myst'ry utterest. What is there to hate
in repentence? All the absences i've gathered
else, were thrown away or accident;
this was a barrel over placid falls
to visualize no more. Now discontent
is not why go back, nor mourning's catcalls
but in autism's army, too, a heretic
(or wannabe?)--O, the pokerfaced clock-hours!

To fathom which, were rather twitch than politic...

But burning under the brand of acid showers
is a man made out of words, among them 'time',
its obverse 'love'; their tumbling, 'will to crime'.

The Color of Loss.

Fear of the more intelligent: makes good sense as an individual survival instinct; for the group, however, it is otherwise.

No comments: