Follow the designs
of the fruit fly course
and swallow the silver abyss
of the month, like a pocket of lungs
in the tissue of paperwork,
the wrong eschatology
roaming freely in the
painless nurture
of nature – there
flapping endlessly
in a wind of glimpse.
I am so far away,
the moment
is a scorching taste of whiskey
in my half-agape mouth
my hand curling
the hair of
chance
nonchalance
alas is for me a word
signifying wings
history is in my sensations
to end this night
in the consolation of death
being as gentle as
sleep
far away from what is believed,
towards the prismatic dispersal
of becoming again
transitory
so far away
aging with the journey
of name
Nihilistic Poetry Blog
