Carving & Reading

What is the real? What makes this real?
This telemetric poetry real?
Whatever it is it vanished after
Reading those who click and splatter
Anthropoidally upon the page;

Is it a certain semantic field of earth?
A subject, wombic matter of the birthing of the present?
Bleak bus stops and financial crash
Impacting on a brave new young.
Is it urban hopes; a singsong illocution
And a lack of rigid form?

Must I be complacent in my shambling edicts
Of what the world is, encyclopediac beings?
Vast endemiological stalactites
Falling slate-like from my pen?

Or is it tangled sex-tape thread and other inscriptions
Of modern desire, the breakfast business
and typing stunning empty letters,
Sent to other Londominium adresses?

– – –

What does it mean that you dip-dye your hair blue?
What language of dying do you speak
Here a girl passed, she the second, establishing a rule.
Do you enchant my imagination in dark humid-evening orgies
Do you bathe in chemical baths to preserve your heart
Does it invite the sudden stranger to embrace you?
Are you a fan of runic authorise, of ringing fantasy multiworks?

The labyrinthry of your follicular intentions bemuse me;
I read you like a torn-out page.
Does its length correspond to your chastity?
Is it blue because you want me to notice?
Well I notice, I’m dull as a blunt arcadian pencil
Sepal, shall we write?

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Send your life out in multiple directions like a galaxy shedding stars. Always come back to hope and try to thrive. All posts, (poems, stories, essays, etc.) here are composed by my hand, unless noted otherwise. Please ask if you'd like to use one.

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