Is anyone to plead that fight? — Love her:
A True Game Of Solitare — European Canon
To Be Human Is To Be Together Yet Staying All Alone — Universal Is Her Trust In You Now.
A cactus remains by an empty bulb; the coil and flux missing from the application. The table jitters ever so slightly, as the whirling room tramples on past the static world, just hoped for, outside this plate of glass. The paper applicant of weaving words — Remains prostrate to its own blandness, Awaiting your own nudity shared, By the order of words to intend — Themselves, Very — very, say, Cool of you to do so, Say.
Anon shall it be — maybe it; let that one be, won’t you?
Not all that is, ask for your interventions.
Bleak, lonesome image — seemingly transported on a rail, is the carriage that harbors growing yet stillborn life: Cactus, upon a wooden table, with the fixtures unplugged; the electric blue neutered, for now.
Comes a practicing tide — the hopes of you all; seemingly, if one could acclaim themselves to such foresight, and postulations so verbose as that — then I dare so. Catching up closely to the telephone, the grammar rings silently, neutered lover, now, For sure — for sure.
Gripe your gripes, I dare —
These words may mean nothing for your cares — Yet someone penned them to exist;
Wherefore? Is it a trip of the ego’s lurch — certainly, An ounce of it shan’t shatter the sturdy earth — But too much shall make the men study too Confabulated not so far in the fate.
Anon shall it be — maybe it; let that one be, won’t you?
Not all of that, asks for your interview.
A woman has been eyeing you since You started to jolt down the words, That abide kingdoms to the ideas, Ruminating yet parched like the Dromedary Camel — That remains afloat, In heart and in vain, Steadfast, in the eager desert That tells all forces to obey.
She’s been watching you even more Intently as the stations whirl on through The noisy cattle’s room. Her focus balances like the lover Involved elsewhere — And the collapsed old devil, That can’t help but stare. At you, she does, and will. Chug-chuga-chug — Ever so oft, the room howls, Chug-chuga-chug — As farrows are reaped; The cereals hoisted into The obeying backs of Blue-checker red vans. Chug-chuga — chug — The words come like The value that seemingly Has no effort to stop its Release. Chug-chuga — chug — The station daemonized fairly, Warszawa to Berlin line.
The image is fair, The images passing — the humanity, Passes all starkly; Gainly, they alight. Firmly does she press her intent, But hidden stare — The cheekbones of a lady fair to Her fifties, yet the sexiness That shames all tardy disquiets away, By the snow jewel rose, That her skin intends for you — Twenty-two is she, still for you. Them meaninglessly vacant eyes; All for one and one to the paper. Is all such a thing could ever care To Obey. Her intent is still universal — Beckons you out of your pit. The gully was ready to rip.
The eyes are beholden firmly to hers — Her movements, effortlessly stealing — Her blue cross, her laden affair — Watching you all of this time — How could she dare? ’twas a time and the time was just — For such things, as a lover to demur; Detailing us, all the same, right there…
Breathlessly, she returns her stubbornness, Recoils, and vanishes into the maddening Weight of cattle bright, for the evenings fair. Gone she is gone. Evening — O; evening, Precious be — if I ever wish to defame her there.
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