Monday, June 16, 2014


The plan was confusing. A camouflaged staircase hugged
a disordered wall, disappearing finally, or originally, into a bulbous,
crazed protuberance of a vestibule, a globular, buboid affair,
whose chthonic hue must've been some species of crimson,
but which had subsequently been won over to various stages
of hue replacement including oranges, and yellows, then
different tones of azure, and turquoise, and dun, and there were
successive stages of exuberantly tessellating tileworks as well,
now slathered over, unfortunately, with an imploring mud,
whose various odd haecceities defied a discrete, and logical
discription, looking somehow like miniaturized apocalypses
of colour, engulfing whole populations of tiny animals, plants,
and human beings, but not at all doll-like or contrived.
These remnants looked wholly as if they were once alive,
and one could glean a glimpse at any sector, of tiny, real, skeletons:


If in effects we had beseeched him further with,
"Every horse cannot possibly be Pegasus,"
would he have even given notice then,
to the singular essential banditry
of demotic life?

One huzzah, or any huzzah, he may have
given us, would still be commensurate
with the obdurate calculus of meaning
to the field, for banditry, finally, must
rob itself holy, Endymion, long nature,
against itself remains, a classical nudity,

but your mother, would she laugh, or gasp,
to see her son so supple in the capital?
Liberty, it seems, is a cause for great tattoos,
the supreme being, by all accounts, is revolution itself.
"A thing of banditry is a joy for ever," said the poet.

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Irrony Observes The Earthing.