B. Aires

24Jun11

When there was the poemist who grew the talon to write. For write and t’under – t’under and or t’under there is no air over it.  At this time has come. Now go B. Aires or Catacomb. Un-swivel. Unhinge. Unheard. Or fight that ugly therapist! Should-Not whispers, as sun falls off street. Under the window sways ivory, rustling to rustling. Is it Africa, song is song, sun is sun?

So all you can do is leave them. Get them but leave them. Time is terrifying. It makes each day. Of course, the beautiful, like order have been ordered. If the setting list were released – saying head to the neurodrome. The tickets are.  Under.  Half. Undone. Un-curved. Crop This. Drop In. De Love. Ice.

Dear my friend, this is the axis of want, speaking from the past. A powerful drug come unto some possessions. Time they named it ‘White Owl’. Time I can tell thee. I tell thee. “Each light past my window has the heart sound of a bullet. Mostly syllabic.” Re Coup. This is Reconnaissance PM. Dedication harbouring almost solely dedication. When holy shoots the silence is golden.

I remember when I was a grandfather and you had your yellow dress. We waxed a boat didn’t we?  “The Retro Spectacle“. Though many throats though in the blizzard that stopped all things. Carnage was the word on the street. And tigers came. And tigers came again. So don’t trust the reports. You can trust no observers. Just walk. Keep walking. In boots. On a roof.

I love like a sense of warning. What is wanted from this is a sort of a sense. You and me, head and shed, them or they delta, and it.  It tries to get over it. I’m sorry there’s no mouth in a step. Nor hours nor time. So very round the back – just reeds and lamp-light. Yet some staircases provide the perfect sense of travel.

Exchanging amputee stories. Tiring and lonely. WANTED: Currants-hot.  A wrist with a cross. And the loss of this sea view. Shipwreck. Harbour. Catacomb. Curling under, till the waves take on.  Try not to relax so much in to it. Try and stand upright and hear it dissolve under. These are efforts for. Thrown. Hope. Apologise. Re treat. Re-coup. The tickets are.

Commissions rolling in like carp. By the gates it was heard “So that I might understand“. Okay.  Dedication harbouring almost solely dedication. You breathe in with your mouth open. You are unrehearsed. You therefore may be wood moss, or like wood moss. So it was that it was believed as such. Can we talk about anything else.

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One Response to “B. Aires”

  1. 1 steve

    Instinctively like it.


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