Prep for the knife now
Take will, and stock, and hedge here
Cut across the heart.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Accidental Splendor
Our Father,
Tell me what to call a shrouded grin, for my words fail me in accidental splendor.
With clouded eyes cast down upon our follies, I feel the chuckles rocking you heavily;
I seek solidarity in my staving heart, and in my soliloquy I confess a readied reluctance for retribution.
The kind has given much attention to my masonry, and brick by brick I rebuild; a migrant filing from oxidized modern mules, put to plow til sweated brow and caliced hand take.
Mortar mollifies you know, I know you know when I hear that devious chuckle bellowing through my veins, that the wrecking ball may strike again.
Rephrase, stumble over my tongue, I ask again, Our Father, what to call a shrouded grin.
A parafoil perhaps, the nongrid, parachute-like nylon airfoil of ribbed or cellualr construction, constricting my descent into turbulent terratory.
Or even an ewer, a now priceless, now useless piece of pottery from a time no one remembers, but stories stave te philosophy of ritual propriety, and no one will ever forget it was once celebrated to contain
Emptiness.
Maybe the word is wahine, riding a wave and flowing on her own celebrated vesselature.
Painted Warhol prose on bathroom stalls pre-emt me to possibility of
Perfume, aromatic tangebility of him, olfactory lingerings beyond Apollo's reign.
Cupido, the thirst from staredowns with cylanders filled with shallow waters.
Maybe the word follows 'L'
Leeway. Ledger. Leg-of-mutton. Launder.
Loon. Locomotive. Legalist. Lavender.
Legato. Latino. Lather. Lair.
Launch. Laudanum. Laugh. Lecture.
Loin. Logical. Leatherback turtle.
But Father, Our Father
I just want to want him,
Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, the word is
Hm.
Tell me what to call a shrouded grin, for my words fail me in accidental splendor.
With clouded eyes cast down upon our follies, I feel the chuckles rocking you heavily;
I seek solidarity in my staving heart, and in my soliloquy I confess a readied reluctance for retribution.
The kind has given much attention to my masonry, and brick by brick I rebuild; a migrant filing from oxidized modern mules, put to plow til sweated brow and caliced hand take.
Mortar mollifies you know, I know you know when I hear that devious chuckle bellowing through my veins, that the wrecking ball may strike again.
Rephrase, stumble over my tongue, I ask again, Our Father, what to call a shrouded grin.
A parafoil perhaps, the nongrid, parachute-like nylon airfoil of ribbed or cellualr construction, constricting my descent into turbulent terratory.
Or even an ewer, a now priceless, now useless piece of pottery from a time no one remembers, but stories stave te philosophy of ritual propriety, and no one will ever forget it was once celebrated to contain
Emptiness.
Maybe the word is wahine, riding a wave and flowing on her own celebrated vesselature.
Painted Warhol prose on bathroom stalls pre-emt me to possibility of
Perfume, aromatic tangebility of him, olfactory lingerings beyond Apollo's reign.
Cupido, the thirst from staredowns with cylanders filled with shallow waters.
Maybe the word follows 'L'
Leeway. Ledger. Leg-of-mutton. Launder.
Loon. Locomotive. Legalist. Lavender.
Legato. Latino. Lather. Lair.
Launch. Laudanum. Laugh. Lecture.
Loin. Logical. Leatherback turtle.
But Father, Our Father
I just want to want him,
Perhaps, maybe, just maybe, the word is
Hm.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)