There was still time, anyway,
or should we stand and gaze on phenomena without trepidation?
I scale gist and secret, all timeless.
I walk past lights and shadows march over my shoulder
(and god i plan on things so placated and skeptical)

Fingernail to fingernail: Valhalla spectacle and veil.
I respect, I trust, I am waiting in a solution of calm
and I, crass and lamp-like, harp and squawk at passing solids.

There is always time while there are thoughts.
It’s logical insubordination to be sure.
It is impossible for me to lose time while it is on my mind;
how can one lose something that is on top of their head?
– or behind their nose, it’s only
It’s only spaciousness.
Cat and scone,
pressure to opting for a marriage to something else laminated.

Callous to callous and I am
not a sordid boy; I
am not a sordid boy; I am
not a sordid boy; I am not
a sordid boy; I am not a
sordid boy,

I neck and plank.
I lose where verbaciousness is and I
excel in earth-shakes and handshakes
and cold lakes. My hand holds high my chin
because I jump across chasms, or something.

There will be time for masks and
capes and dust and snakes
and lamps and jazz and lists and plans.

I stand motionless on an infinity point
hand in hand with a girl who radiates
moments and not years.
I clip a fingernail into the toilet
that has soft light off to the left
and my plans open their eyes
and I mention something about
messes in my hair of clock hands and math.
She only kisses my lips and squeezes my hand,
so I let it run across my eyelids, pressuring my sinuses
and holding me aloud.

A shower of bell play and ticking, weights.
Bass lines and saxophone rhymes –
it’s beautiful, magnificent and stupid.
Here I spell out a symphony
and camp my senses to the point of
wounding: severe cliché, of all devils.