Thursday, February 2, 2012


Wry inset, of the ecumenical verging on verse
One that reaches beyond the design of the cup
That is, beyond the tel of the noisy loins of the troupe
The siren which maintains all inversion

New navigations among the diverse mess
Whose friends motion towards the surly doll
Whose fastidious slaves cover and fill the cup
With the fleet lightning set beyond internal witness

Now engage the drunken bell
Without the pitch black skull of memes
We porters debauch with salutes

A star toils in solitude
And in its whirling worth
The blank source of all worries