So easy then slipping into the smooth
Behold at the mirror the executioner
or else stay
behold instead the bookish fellow
as he shuffles his way down the plank
or is it up to the gaping gallows
or flat and bumpy to the shooting wall
or is he laid already atop the dying scaffold?
He was certainly happier while he wrote
(what nobody ever read).
He sees himself again
a haste of paws
tentacles from a morbid vessel yearning for voyages
the guts of the compass rose rose to face the storm
the guts spread
nasty exposed clams
whose catagmatic glue the melancholy drift can’t keep other
Magnetic were the slumbers
in the idle darkness
exhausted regrouped the airy martyrs
whose corpses such cravings
erstwhile all exhibited.
the sails knocked about like papers swept away
squealing against the ambush of the winds
Fading into the lower depths
while the hypnagogic voices wailed
no hindrance spooky enough to
with its writhing tentacles stop
the everlasting intrusion into the...
“just jottings” – the bookish fellow tells them –
“the darling swirlings of the smoke.”
To death he clung
in dark forebodings of death sunk
forebodings of death
to whom he clung
dearest friend above all
above all his imaginary friends
in broodings sunk
dumb womb of his hammering head
his teeth ached all the time.
Why the heartache?
people die all the same
such matter-of-factness dying
brooding fiery diatribes
in soliloquies that were damned morologies
by dint of sheer will
in his ultimate pyre burned
while flung by wind-swept hands wept the wind.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
35. wept the wind
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