Look at the fountain, how it stretches its arm-like foam and spurting bouquets of gurgles; it leaves no echo in the sunlit conception. I know what it was. A word. Burgeoning and birds, no, butterflies came to squeeze its melancholy. Ah how it flows, echolike and here I am rewriting the misery of boredom, nay, a resistance to ineffability. I wonder how many have seen a human skull (like the one I saw today) and thought to themselves: I will fight till the end. It would be prudent to say: idiots! Some days when bliss is spilt and the cock is dry, you really become a skeptic, doubting the lyrics of the mother. Whose mother? The one with the ring and the beautiful array of beats that threw us off and made us tame soldiers. What can we expect when we’re abandoned and hungry seeking the lost pictures of meaning. I can’t imagine how to end this, this sick exercise of automatic writing. I could throw in some words I admire: echo, emptiness, essence, elixir, elapsed, echo. Oh I keep repeating that one.

Contemporary Poetry