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.
“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