Death’s Golden Gab

📍
Rest in depth
Sleeping pace
Crusted
In your split mimicry
Of life again
A few seconds, in it for the looney, on the verge of going into the erased tank, inept dried lavas of a lost groove
Take a last dug in the thrust
Seasoned letters trodden in the dust
Mothy-mothy dear
Skidmarks of the year
Upon the cordless lichens of your heart
Harshly dashed into your moon memory
Gone for good in the burnt opened womb
Statant before your eyes
Your near sped experience
Is in need of some spice
Churning, turning the Cape Sable of dark matter’s innards
To our face
Which langsamer circles the play in between
The sinuous externalities of the vowels of the Worm under the mask
Silent wording’s Ordnung
A wired-dealt-out ordeal
On the borders of more salient mouthed tubes
Their spaciform work of Earth
Slickly clad in rusty clouds down your bust, juicy
The unmentionable snowmoth of a Mensch
Dearly refreshed imago on the verge to meet with a new flesh, correct me, a new sheath
Still tends to its tenets
Discalced
Clotted in a poignant glassy black the likes of which your species would follow till the end of the bird branch
In a calculated gesture
Treasured stash of a cadger, yet again another zoonotic somber mannish episode which loves being integrally plotzed
Clearing a clog at the throat of hours that did not pass it or him, even
Make it a
Norman conquest
An
Arab revolt
Divided off
For richer achiever, for poorer
Into injury time that won’t be moneyed
Miscible minus mime
Desiccant despoiled of dunary scales
According to its deserts
Let’s pick a Planck constant
An on-hook barb, eerily heard
Noise level constraints hastily construed by the reeds of Zarathustra and another unknown bagpiper’s mutual consent
Seconds ago still keyed on the surface of things
Sans air, bellows of a Homestead Act
Seed of the planet of the moths
Myths, myths, myths, pent-up
On a simple tract of simple dirt
In the hovels of the Lord where the chinaware bone of your genes are stacked
No Godbody fusses over you anymore
Low hotel with a Minor star
Blown is the doorknob
What a negative proof of yesterday
The travails to cite and demonstrate
Every bitten step of the way
Now that your mons pubis
Made of that inominate cone the mossovit
Massively dwindling away to its looked up fossil state
Quicksand not to glue and cement
For whom the moorcock cries
It shrieks for you Jargontina
A Penitent’s pennon
Fogging the issue
Above the threshold of consciousness
The doors of sensuousness
Fading, vanishing
Bodily cyan spirits, bacteries oddly suctioned already, it’s raining brains
Death is a late exchange of water, droplets gone to Calais as they remember Dover, perhaps
Take a peep dressed up as a breath
And flee the last

°

An #insect I saw dying before me, september 15th 2020, lewshima, Instagram, #american #poetry.