... or rambling...


Midnight calling


Time times a square in a circle
folds neatly when the sun
is on the other side
and I in the silt yawns.

It is the dark dawn
of all mother beams,
the midnight aspiration
of all madmen,
no leash, no tidal worry.

Woe all men at war,
all women bleeding colors
where no eye
should have to be.

Drums, suggestive
corroboration with infants,
ask anyone.
The I is hard to
pin down
or give context.

I, summary of input,
the voice behind these words,
the I concluding,
that longs for nothing
in its profundity.

Sing, stall stale input,
call portiere to no more.
Drive nails and pour
all your future effects
before sleep.

Derelict, dispersing, dying.
Creases, bright water with birds,
reeds, funny flowers
and a dream
at the edge of madness.

Solemn, no, holy, no.
Honest perception?
Yes! Only I is peer.

Driving, persevering,
not knowing where I am,
this intention, driven,
calling all
no place to go.

Whispers whimper,
intentions.
Is I this impression
surrounding me?

Am I no more, or less?
What occurs, that which
constantly begs
for unique attention,
all is passing.

The why encloses,
the understood breaks.
All that one, or I, can be
is a penetration,
an obituary.




Poetry by Bob
Read 467 times
Written on 2011-03-24 at 21:57

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