Sketches - 50 (November 15th, 2014)

50.

Winter day long breath of

pure cold gusting here on an artic

front from some furthest coldest

heart of complete unknown.

It has our traffic in stitches

and our fevers up high,

translucent blank panelled

passing of minutes - idea begun

and flitting away as forgotten as a

nondescript bit of ash.

Dog Dali - comes in, goes out,

comes in again, the whole

tender routine of our

family dog.

Eyes droop down at my slippered

                     feet.

Yes.  Like Lou Reed, I could

sleep for a thousand years.

Or should’ve been born

a long time ago with sailor’s

suit and cap.

In the kitchen with

           Sibelius - great grand

           quiet patient

           dark withering

           quivering soul

           like tiny brown

           leaves trembling

           in this Artic

                    front.

When someone like Christopher

Smart had a fever, you can bet

            yer ass

that he saw and experienced

           THE WHOLE THING,

and then forgot it again.

The blade will strike when it

                 strikes.

Pit-n-Pendulum logics.

Big watery yellow eye.

Eternal sickly KALUMP

of heartbeat in the most

granulated evil whiskey

drunk EVER.

Outside there are monsters

and dreams waiting to be born when

the machine is turned

                        off -

it’s inevitable.

(November 15th, 2014)

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