To drip in disconnect, to lapse
the major artery, I sit in puddles of love's excess,
so myriad and olfactory, so struck by metaphor
the underwear's lush with growth. So, transmigrate,
so aware of dinner-time, Diocleidas, so aware of androids
on the roof, or electric razors taking wool off sheep: the grinder
scurrilous in shed-time, oh woeful spleen, oh skittish
logico tractables, in burnt paddocks, smoke curlicues
about our brazen fires, thighs drawn in blonde grass,
as beer bottles pop in unison, these propositional signs.
Inferences: so stagger about our rigorous memories,
pubic touching in garden darkness.
Ern is of the park, and occasionally further afield. He channels, divines, and is pretty much an open book. He is losing his ambitions.