ineluctable

trembles radiate

silences in the dark tread, sterling silver

deck christmas afternoons

into slivers of dark linings

opera-ting ripples of your eye

browns into nigh

tight bellowings, 1 day

page after book after binding, no one

discloses me and flowers me like the night

after a continuous sigh, burnt out.

how is it possible? i've become a whore of life, lust all

spiritual finesse, my soul

unbound, expressive

underneath

the endless purple of the dead.

how is it possible that i could

knoe

1 word

1 day

1 afternoos of nuit

feathered with fools.

i've been amiss

stolen another man's car

sped into rebellion

combusted into farts, dealing with the devil galore,

lost

in all eyes.