If it doesn’t strike us it will strike us later.
As though we were cheetahs, we run,
As though grey machines of steel, we stand,
The never-ending, piecemeal plot.
We are not challenged by gnostics.
This sweet Hippocrene pouring forth on Mount Helicon,
To us, reduces and sharpens us,
Agrees us into hollow troughs.
We wear our speech closely in this new plane of meetings.
Deadbolt nine-millimeter, we find dilapidated mineshafts
To anguishes, delights, to unspoken, purple-mouthed truths.
We squeeze tunnels through where we weren’t meant to meander.
Following smiles will be knowing, laced with milk-skins.
We are petering, teetering, blanched
Toward the white, misty abyss,
Its spidering ironies ever before our faces,
Our feet rooted in the salted snow of a vast empire.
We can’t come to our conclusion.
We shall come to it at another time.
We’ve got cherries and bunting,
I’ve made a bunt cake for the ride;
I can’t make certain what the time will be,
But we can feel electricity shock through us
Like electric needles piercing our veins
Whatever is hurtling before our nonchalant city brights,
Nine times out of ten a candle illuminates it for us,
Adventuring ever forward as though we knew naught.
I don’t know how to hurry out of here,
But if there was a pleasant theme tune I would hum it.
We carry on, we lag behind.
Baskets and scenery
Heralds and clauses
Fairly missing sadscapes and rocket-disasters.
We carry on. There is no ‘lag behind.’
We call it the coming and going,
The talking from east and west.
Dogs and cars are ashen to our call.
We elapse forward and scurry back.
It started with him and we have this world.
Labels: Drew
1/03/2009 08:38:00 PM