Angelic quandaries unsettle frenetic cloning for the moon in symptoms of doom. Make me into a bristling broom. I can’t stop doing it. Cant stop sweeping for nuggets. Death releases the temptations from their horror. Score transit against tip of sky. Its hard its hard its hard
not to deify. Suddenly get wildly confused so busy swallowing the ancient muse/fuse – Go on go off at rim of hate and reach reach for the river –
Not unjoin from temptations of fate. Water and fire thirst and churn into throwing tire mire ire, things that rhyme with air.
Escape to canal watching watching, its pleasant and calm its beautiful there, buggy and noble and green – Suds this muds wretched pud swirls against tomorrows turn of heat. Questions in a slammer riven. Welded like a rock is to a wall of skin whose trickles from hell ferry in. Calm I must be calm.
Hilltop Park. Take another slab in the dark. Something went off like a gun, there across Crosswicks Creek heading down into Abbots Marshland. Then its quiet, followed by laughter. Filled with the hilarity of closeness to death as puzzle of minimalism? An irrepressible aesthetic –
Oh fire brigade scuttles across bedlams effusometers sinfully exploding into shade, pallor of an irreptitious mermaid – Forever floating and dozy and strum. Searching for joy, tinkling with jouissance. Can’t go on, will go on.
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