Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Writers, mirrors, the night

Plans, plans and riddles of rules. Which of us is free? The muses call their blackened bellows:

"Time is ticking. Always tonight the light will be extinguished. Fear, and fear, and know nothing!"

The wicked stench of hindsight flowers pollute the mind with merciful mirrors, fogging the future.

Nighttime: dreams come - respites from biology overlords - the genes, the whip; tender slow-chapped lashes leave their marks.

Schizophrenic prosody stinks, its masturbation's un-lubricated shuffle drowns the sea and stars.

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