‘Tis The Angel Man! — What Am I But A Grizzled Woman — A Poem

Beguiled, Roomless, Boarded, Emptied, And Saner All The Stretch Thence

‘Tis not me to enlarge the I to aye

For the scrolling of induced public tides.

Slavery persists from the half-deranged to the persuaded half-sane

By the sheaths and hearts Haughty injunction of cowardly withers

Of stool, shade, and ordered functional.

’Tis the Angel Man — tis never and I, and my fluid flights to the assemblies that confound thought into a sole track.

’Tis The Angel Man! — What Am I But A Grizzled Woman, heaving in hearths.

A finger is broken, while the man remains licking the sole of the Devil;

Satan and the man —

Lithuania remains debauched, by the guzzling disembowelment of stated

Cloth around the naked hides of a man alive.

Reportage tunnels in the fiction ever by the swiftness of their disinterest

To come and know every word they reclaim, thoughtlessly,

As is the rite of hobbled crowds in the sore rain.

’Tis the Angel Man — For I so wholesale deranged, ripes back the roundness of my buttocks by the flux of time.

Depressed into the blue of a client suite,

Motions the mind, my mind, ever beholden to sanity, sight uncheered,

Poland now remains chided, by the dismal claims of light from Jerusalem

Unto Requiem, seduced by no further ire of blame.

Satan and the man —

Laughing gaily in bottom speech, so aptly parted for the political man, naked in his rump chest, orating his flex aloud.

Hobbes smirked balding to the lifted corner thence.

Brown triples my eyes, wildly, as I gaze into the mid-distance at them;

They don’t amuse themselves long at the space fixed in my eyes.

The inordinate puzzling fool am I —triples come by the woven thread, worn down by the ineffable hurt of time.

By the sheer volume of words, Lord Currie's purse is owned only by the scriber;

Unmovable mounts of classified men, vulcanized in spite by halved & halved lands;

Enough for one to be broached and robbed by the entanglement of derangement.

What are we without the fangled body of war?

Never has it been so solid, despite the raging desire for the humane pension for leveled farrows in shapeless seems.

The hecatomb is on me, for the hundredth, to the thousandth sent to the billionth of multitudes,

Eagerly begotten to the raking rules of abide by heaving chaff of moon and socket.

’Tis the Angel Man — tis never and I, and my fluid flights to the assemblies that confound thought into a sole track.

’Tis The Angel Man! — What Am I But A Grizzled Woman, heaving in hearths.

Cumbersome beach, tickles the rot under the fancy, wide, harking mist, avast.

Pleasuring me thereon, deranged and quite past the motheringly contrition of spite, bitter to the rages of naked fists to the wind.

Do vex her —

Come and do so —

Do vex her —

’Tis not me to enlarge the I to aye —

Heaven forbid that murmuring of impeachable words,

In the annal passage of earth to guideless throes,

Astute, very wide, in the suite, so opprobrium, passes my name!

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