from swerve of shaw to blend of bray

On March 15th 20118, I was two days away from the delirium of sepsis and I wrote this.

 book 5

“In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!”
― James Joyce, Finnegans Wake

catching my death

is an English melody

travelling from heat to freezing cold

culture, religion, sexual orientation, trans-this-sans-that

sans fucking everything.

This mealy-mouthed moaning of the young middle-class means nothing to me.

People volunteer to eat shit, eat shit they can do,

just like that, they're that stupid.

Put a gun in the average guy's hands

And whatta yer got?: A murderer?

Sometimes, I  wear a funny hat

no smiles, no men o’pause, just the barest necessities

freeze, moan, groan, be, alone

I say these words into this barely-mystic air

that is always, and forever, everywhere.

We can see through bare air and miss everything.

Like in one of Solz’s gulags, it’s a European thing,

every songbird says.

You interpret the wrong signs, you so drift out of line,

a triangle appears, an equation:

-b + or — sq root of b2–4ac/2b

that’s just one way to pray

Guilt for my best friend,

failing to keep him warm, in his grave.

Nothing stops this inclement shivering inside

by all means there’s worse to come

sans teeth, sans fun, sans everyfuckingthing

◄ i.m. Vasily Zaystev

outfoxing the furies ►


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