pale grease

your harmonica of doubled selves
with pointed ears made of gluten
it knows
the shelf-life slows down
some vision of alchemy is still extant
where the talk-show host-hermit on the mount
erects these blakean and hand-painted
stele in relief

nothing yet forecast (the still leaf)
a moment in which the dark spots
of the speaking mildew lend some
sunken topology to Amleth's curving form
the stars may be organs
but the body has ambled away
leaving much room
for rocambolesqueries of amble
ample is the genie's tongue carpet
who huddled as pixels made of harmonicas

the doubled self is sad
and the single self is empty
to wit only knowledge of the split
resembles a joy
but no one feels it
but there in its painted
and pointed ear of gluten
sits the tiny stone stele of blake
a frozen and hurrian minstrel of carbuncles
which knows only a single song
which it croons unceasingly
YOU'VE LOST YOUR REASON
YOU'VE LOST YOUR REGION
but then all forms of alchemy
are lurid