more flats for “Eruption”
Bliss. Sits bright and bolt and lightening on the pillows
in the bed. The Maharishi said on days
like this one never minds. I’m fond, though, of the wheedle
and the whine, the spotty metaphor. I love a finely
whittled rhetoric as well as sulk and puffery,
the luffing trope, the twang of the diurnal sprawl.
In fact, if I were given the ability
to transmogrify, I’d turn it down. The yellow
haze that bobbles round the hirsute saints and weighs
a ton is just so many gamma rays, a tidal
wave of repose, thank-you no. A more divinely
shaded prospect lies in wayward words that suffer
time, the dark romance of disappearing, all
flawed and hopeful, flushing with nobility.
Wear something… Black.