Lumpen inhales this way and he can die here.
The head turns inwardwise to look at what drives out;
Which obsessions commandeer, what silent hives abut
The bee glade, what constructions over cellar-fear
Are tilting toward effluvia. Odors of rose
Musk turn stink in the plexus that makes the world.
Despite, senses oppose: the projection is hurled
Upon the rocks and waters; while some suppose
The mind is bent under run-on propositions,
Thought experiments in a requisitioned skull,
Quotidian fissions blasting around a small
Wilderness in a universe of omissions.
Make it the case that the clock hands run widdershins.
That gnome doctors dig for the curative specie
Through cave-bound winds in a brain that bides uneasy.
Spring forward the horse, the rider and all his sins.
Is there art in the final illuminated
Hallways of the gods? The aggregate disperses
Into it’s several inks. The rare nib solved verses
Starring Sphinx― now he too shall be extirpated.
