poetry critical

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What I have told you about what I have is all that I have so far in this repertoire read from afar on far away sands where the lack of true lead is palpable; fresh; having waited until the sphere pill brings in your thrills on the frills of the silver platters you brought—in on silver patters raining silver flumes on your silver spoon doubloon: flung balloons on pretty strings on strings of the aluminum coil in the center decanter, pick 1 of the 3 nails through solar sails this pales in comparison to your bullhorn bastion housing your evaporative vixen caught in the bonsai pine-wind, tiny tornados of frayed dough, so, let us talk about your broken muses’ musculatures—please do not talk about me like that—as for myself, well, once you pass the event horizon you can wave to each other’s unwritten poems, unwritten work, where your disappointment is racked and never ransacked, because (!) your parenthetical weakness is forgotten by nothing, your self will always know itself, forgotten on your journey towards salvation, where the names have no names and only words you read reflecting back to you reflect back to you, only our bridge looking back at you in the southern view of the quadruple peaks—leave it behind—let me break from your obsessive nature obsessively answering questions with questions because do you really know who you were once you flood the spotlight into the pools of your cavernous stature out to pasture without masks in flasks or beakers if you prefer to speak different languages in adages to each on peach colored beach-con: cool umbrella did you know—hey, before I forget, can you capitalize these expenditures’ boring dentures—chatter chatter chicken pocks, how I wished upon you when I was undeveloped but yet still burgeoning from yeti-fur so you really can not feel the temperature shift, I mean, over time man’s meaning means nothing, does the obsession ever calm down—ah—you already know it does if you can read: child prodigy, do you know more than most or does your imagination also falter between the fault lines drawn—fields of crop ready drop everything just to feed you, do not let them impede you, protect yourself at all times, do not do this, do not pass go pieces to your partner, just listen—what if everybody just listened—what if no one said anything and just listened to the nature of your relativistic velocity, where you do not need to know the equation when the laws still reveal themselves to the drams of slivered sunshine drink the brine, unwind, relax your weight upon yourself, unburden yourself from the numbers I taught you to write in the mirror of your soul resting in the orange bowl, hallow be thy name, processions passing by discretely speaking the names of the names, little duckling, why must you do you and urge your way of life forward, why must you walk on the webs, why must you talk on the teleprompter on your telethon has arrived—what can we achieve without mischief in private places—why can not you talk to me, I mean, you can type to me, but never talk, see: your annoyance is now buzzing in the liquid for millennia abstentions aside, now I finally have space for you on the shelf covered in exotic barnacles—take cover, heed the way of yourself before you finally fill out my checks, saved for the rainy days ahead damp but not drowning, dim but not extinguished, like your sun at this distance—mind you you would have grown much, much differently had you been standing directly in the many particles, breathing in the last of the night’s ash as I also wonder whether you breathe out or someone else breathes in too, perhaps there is succession between the lot of you, perhaps it is true what they say.

15 Aug 17

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I'm not sure I have the brain capacity to work through another persons stream of concho type deal today.

I usually find little nuggets, in yours, towards the end....but are these getting longer known?

I think within a context I could grasp I would certainly like chatter chatter chicken pocks.
 — PollyReg