ante meridiem

18 June 2017


 
          The stranger grimaces, decries amateur orchestration, prescribes
humoral amelioration, statim! Anorexique a’la cygne noir!
Splenetic retch periodically ejects whence ennui claims
          fount, and apathy fills rococo-chalice measures to brim.

                    Motorists, motoring in their cars, carrying, I suppose,
          regular folk: beyond desolate prelude, to advent.
Powering toward mornings choleric mundanity sold as free-
          trade coffee, and employment.

          The stranger recites to me these words: ‘quasar‘, then
boson‘;
blooming flowers distillate, the stranger begins to croon.
I suppose those cars carry regular folk off to work, or away.
          Away, perhaps, from slumbering abuse and clenched teeth,

                    toward madness. Perhaps misread milieu-meson,
          perhaps logic done gone git itself supernova. Perhaps
bluestone roads eventually reach somewhere
          worth going, most likely nearer event horizon.

          The very fringe of salvation and promise – drive-thru
gated misery.
Here, parking comes free with every valid purchase.
Mine explanation is insufficient, veracity not verbatim,
          and the stranger squawks ‘jigsaw‘ thrice, and laughs.



                    Laughing, the stranger screams ‘you’re fucking sick!’
          says to remedy fractured thought with antediluvian cherry-
wood; says to obfuscate irreparability
          with vanilla-raspberry scented ignorance.

          The stranger says affect dejection, pretend at actual artistry!
Failure –
pretend harder! Says: campaign in peculiar memories,
says: throw a glass at the words I write, like they mean
          something. The stranger says I should

                    beseech Rawchshack, says to speak like I have
          something to say that shirks conceit for once, says to answer
without reservation or from hidden behind
          wine. Says I’ll never justify each selfish breath, and I nod.

          Desire in more than some few scraps of sanguinity, for more
pleasant
bouts of insanity – lo! Such does not befit a realist. The stranger
says breakfast finishes at eleven, says the coffee ain’t renowned for
          taste, says a sickly mind won’t improve without effort, bless!

                    The stranger’s hoarse chitter, that perpetual paranoiac
          plash born of sangfroid cheironomy, and syncopated auto-
tyranny, says breakfast is the most important meal of the day, says
          cleanliness is next to godliness, says ‘carpe diem’ –
with sincerity.






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