Wednesday, October 7, 2009

A Poet's Perennial Measure, Modest Tea Aside

This is it, an irresistible purge pure as putrid
Blogging . . . latching on to
A conscience suspended among the laundry.
Indeterminate was it for ten long years,
Cerebral, a radical conundrum with the flair of a behemoth,
Now things short, for the hell of posting some things,
A perennial incredulity, really a vow, to oneself, to a god.

The samovar’s fabulousness has come to town:
"I’m on a roll & won’t stop, won’t patrol disgrace;
What now, what now, dull am I in highbrow articulation;
So serious, my ass, and stage-struck."
Let us unite, o friends, but first allow me freedom,
Grace, and traces of follow-throughs
When the crucifix begets a rock song ballyhooed

To see the gaping hole, colon to the semicolon.
God's only human, so:
The simplicity, that incondite monstrosity,
That's what I get while being such an ass.
You're gonna love me when I'm gone
Though prejudged on campus by athleticisms,
To be vaguely faced like a vandal at large.

From a living room desk to a black hole mess,
My love, do you remember
A salary in celery?
Armchair faction?
One even contesting the shaking samovars?
My gods, and a lad at that in
The dawning of a new day, with a compulsion to change the world.

"Am welterweight enough for sympathy, oh no!"

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