Poets, those vessels in which are held the w(h)ine of life, our rumoured li(v)es take flight on waxen wings chartered to unseal our fate, climbing just to sigh(t) heaven’s brea(d)th as it forms a monument against the walls of our cracked bowl minds, late, ingratiate,

our ocean of spilled truths vandalizing the firmament, shattering through the night of closed eyes every ill-conceived notion, every invasive question, opening up interrogative rooms, painting a system of dreaming thrown pottery paints into one, cutting television-tinged, porn-pigmented skin when something arrives so novel as tawdry love whitewashed of its brainless, awful hue, tuning the soul as it turns into something which corrupts a party;

part of the problem is all of the audacity of our derelict shouting, hitting with echo-fists honey-hearted tombs encrypted with unkempt languages bearding their chiseled lips, and as we think, we loosen time’s tightest grip, since it tends to have no ending, yet employs wisdom to destroy all things, we havoc and menace simply by listening to owls in the ruins of a palace, asking of our inmost hearts but one promise:

that our lines be inspired, our metaphors be honest, and our expression unlimited, our collective unconscious uncompromising when it sets about comparing as in two mirrors, our Selves indisposed, confused as if never to know how it is pilfered seeds fall and, once buried like asterisks in fine print, grow word-like into pages, leaves weeping into vagrant wind torn tales of authors imprisoned by ink, sequestered in and among a parliament of pornographers performing an eternal debate;

oral damnation succumbs to its epic tradition, its lengthy fixation, when the audience forgets to think, silent though not listening, each reader bleeds out of literature a litter of unrelenting filth such lost souls wander and swallow, downing dusk as though their empty heads were vacant sinks, such little ambition for citizens of the wor(l)d, missing out on more satisfying feasts, if only like poets they knew each how to hurt and be heard;

it is a volatile audiotrocity to speak first, and certain to burden with weightier boulders atlases and shoulders, they who cannot carry a tune or bow to opportunity, nor pen verse, since it is the power of a word to travel and to captivate all of the unknow(i)n(g) world.