The voices of fair maidens,
not sweet in attitude,
their cooing so affected
that i am not haply moved
But what do i know,
ive been hauling around these ears
for more than double the years
since they have been sent from home
Whatever.
I think its part pixel part coming back to senses part leaving them behind part painting the ceiling of oneself enrapt in silly chilly fever of the split-mind kind
But maybe thats just me, part reflector part projector. im coming to this place its the horizon of my face crested with charnel lavender, atrophied legs
Hungry lepidopterae,
help the climber stay away
As the incline is not sheer
the present struggle is fake
I am a plant, or a ladder way below
watching their own comedic struggle,
standing next to my father,
ahead of a queue of various versions of him
My mother sighs beneath our feet, surrounding us,
she holds us up