Rings of gold floating away from his stoup
Where brass halos of white jiggle and rise
Like a Sun thick with fatness and stockings,
Spread unto infinity from his wooden pipe…
— Four holes line the cress — The Fool
Dances and skips on the echoes of children
Trapped in cobble jars of ancient solitude
That cover the air’s motion in passing sound.
Alastor and Shatr, an illumination of it’s form
Dance in the voices of every roaring storm,
In motion with the colours voices, that staph
Suckles the fruits of our throat — then we laugh!…
Children follow oblivion with no morality
Tranced to the harmony of his thoughts,
Bloated with mist, the blind man’s clarity;
With hollow eyes, The Fool reflects all courts!…
A lyre of tendons and veins withholds eternity;
He grasps golden eggs of mankind’s paternity
Reposing in maternal natures of our destiny,
The melodies we so blindly follow for infinity.
Rings of gold floating away from his stoup
Where brass halos of white jiggle and rise
Like a Sun thick with fatness and stockings,
Spread unto Liberty from his wooden pipe…
I write with typicality, my creativity has been sucked out of whatever it is is trying to grow — great-another day of this, so used to this — when will it end — when will I begin?