-I am bored,
Is sullen and sunken
I am weeping,

It is I, the Swan
of the dust pillar

and my words,
of last, are
akin to the splitting
of a million futile pikes-

an oil spot
licking your glassy
sun face as a whole
                 (in your knoll)
   the gray,
from) which spoils itself out
in the drear holes,
of softly bitten fabrics
does dies not,
and instead,
confounds in its irony,

perched on my nil,
i saw the face of time,

  swallowing me,
a sand dried carapace,
in a reverse eclipse.

and now aside,
i’ve said
i’ve sighed
my bad hellos
and poor good-byes.
a pardon per dawn,
when the rust
christmascreeps up
I hope I’m
dead and gone.

   butwhat would
Nietzsche say?
perhaps (perched as a condor)
he would label me
charlatan of  moot and waste.
and Foucault, (with his fingerpillar
                      pointed down)
a diagnosis of dusty showers and
sun reaped flowers.

my LSD riddles will wilt
into softshell giggles
and I will succumb to their
faux cerebral pestilence

alas and avail
i am frog on a barnpost,
driven and riddled
with rusty nails.