Now it is here, heard by its courting and strings. Rocking back and forth with this thing and requiem. A new and eternal one, erie, and only as soft as the sick mind dreamed, and wanted. The gears and strings pump this climax and salty tune. Yet it ends so easy.
Jonathan decided that the time had come. He was sick and tired of the constant distress. He checked the bath water, it was warm. He checked the razor, it was sharp. He got in. His body was found with only a note, It was a poem, The only poem he had written in three yearsContinue reading “Jonathan’s Note”
By the night that does pass again, go again, And forward. Do look at this, Do look at and look again, Bust and portrait and so and so with some compliment to the unworthy. Some mile high mark of undeserved and of the thing named ego. This ode and ballad, This tangent of the stageContinue reading “What Idea is Love?”