“Unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem.
Noenum rumores ponebat ante salutem;
Ergo plusque magisque viri nunc gloria claret.”
First-time listener, long-time caller. A lover. A lover.
Two aces of New Year’s Eves like pinpricks refuting.
…Finding yourself entangled in the magic of it all–
Where the warcry needle is a fiery big hit, a beguilingly big minute,
Dotting my fiercely i’s and splintering my e’s,
Eavesdropping at any moment, in the red-eyed glazer like a synapse, like a sigh and a sign.
The gods of dogs never do tell you the reformative years are the dull ones.
They will hurt, immensely.
And I read them once– the true tarnish of their workmanship,
Drunk as the tiles of Perseus, and equally barbaric.
And no man could reach them. They are far past our late Creators.
They are no more mesmerized by the nows as we are made of any interests.
The Keeper of the Ballooned Bees have formulated no such planets as they guide,
But mourns only their constants, their pummelers in their miasmas, and thrive
Without consent. Your slow connection is a punishment of the tech gods.
You were never content, and for that, one can never repent.
You stayed too long at the museum to marvel at the luxury lost,
For it only wanted its color in view. And you know this view
Is only for you, the etches only for you to understand.
For the bearing of the pain cracks only your ribs.
Your beater, the only sanctum it ever prayed to penetrate.
Your purple on the purple floor is the only judge,
The one attendant, the homeless remark.
The gratuitous gods of dogs never do tell their desperados how to park their barks.
Rise and shine, assholes! Rise and shine and dine!
You will curse, but only intermittently.
The intents of the twenty-seven agonies well-described and well-deserved,
With the fifth from the back nobler than any other, bleeding no javerts and touters in tatters, but regale only
In a room that wafted in locks and stituere and carpenter jeans
As a procuresses of raga, periscopes, and clemencies,
Yet hope that to find no bearing of ill-will forgotten
And, also, as well as in Oslo, the nicotine breakdown,
The flocker do yell, “Après moi, le grande déluge!” like a tremendor
Of bigamous silica and thousand words to rescind, to reuse
The misunderstood and the starving become tourist attractions to those glowing with comfort,
But I would stake my own insides for a glimpse of them in sagacity.
I reflect– the Sagittarius moon that I am, in galligaskins, helluva minding and middling, and full of resolve–
To re-escort the printly redecorations into Thalassocratic re-emancipations.
Anyroad, it’s time to get gloomy again… Time to get sappy again…
The greater crowds will never rise against the pretentious little happy souls,
But instead, shower them with laurels undeserved… No laurels for the lazy.
No psalms. Only sermons. Pretentious little nappy souls so full of life, yet so lacking poetry.
Poetry, like any art, is a medium not meant to be always understood, but felt,
Like the flapping of the arms of those who wish, “Flight!– Flight, flight!”
One pulls at the delicates of a mystic crossbow and send their canopies
Far beyond where the body can middle, for that is the ring finger of the artist:
Chosen, trapped, evermore so, in the many merries of eventualities
Married to only emerging better, and everyone, their Lictors. The god of dogs and their victories.
Rise and shine, non-Romans! Rise and shine and dine!
The dots will be spared but by only ceremony.
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