digitus secundus manus
like you, I go too
it just flowers atop our heads
him
as an avatar
as a person so speak
for he so hyperbolic
and unwinding
he so gargantuan not
filigree
not sumptuous
but moribund
as a dynamo
or imago
him sensically perturbed
out of unconscious
he sings like a squeeze
dreams a dream
of historically correct
alchemy
it’s a miracle machine, the thing we’ve been given
so clap your hands! Sing!
turn your iron over
be not ashamed to juxtapose the ossified phalanges,
to scream
the memories broken and it is
within the reel of gust that the lemon swings her rind,
within the darkest night
that the nocturnal calculus orbits
it is of the most profound sound
sidereal and
him
a system of
aberrations
the digitus secundus manus,
but he so lie
the metacarpals,
a stasis of alcoholism
the incunabula of august
the annulus,
stevie
Oh my darling Lysander,
Tell how you hankered,
How you conquered, loved,
Commanded. Tell how much
Pain is unwound & how
The river Styx ever circles,
Flowing soberly throughout
Time. Weave a seminal tapestry for truth,
Centuries beyond your grave—
Tell of the Aegean littoral,
Your balls in your hand dancing,
Your flesh opening upon every event horizon,
Upon every single sea, my liege
Just like me
You are one chrysanthemum away from a bouquet—
You are one tiny heart kept from the world yet dying—
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