old old old

***and again**** touch her hair, I wince-think: what if I were to
say hello? if I were to touch her hair? what then? are words so
strange? my mountain of words: who can find a vein of fold?
chirruping I cannot awake and so veiled bindings wrap creep around
my sleeping eyes… even were I to wake they would not call me they
would not see me in blindness I hear nothing this is it: when
I see her sitting there, as though nothing could can slice across
my shallow weak and twittering heart “come you nightmares! dance
a dancedeath with me!” and bright the blade comes quickening fiercing
in the deep and purple night those yellow teeth and blear-red
eyes lurch forward clutching club gob gob, mouth so fast is in
nonsense-denied, these deep claws come clucking- “Must I weep or
laugh or dance? when if, how, must these things come to pass?”
slickly past nightmares come crawling –they hope I am alone- sleeping
in their lurching way fluting me into an unguarded sleep, where
deep blades purple night, killing sweetness or soft colors which
swarmed around “Avaunt” (feeling antediluvian) “you grim and grey
colors, soft and sweet as you are in timely fashion; thin wool tightening
slowly, so soft, about my bulging carotid, Avaunt!” hold me tight
in your embrace, then- sagging now, find you only staunchly staring
cold into the dark these strange patterns gruel shimmer/thrust in
time break your week into pieces slices of harried splendour… [I
don’t know what this means] [anymore than you do] [but I like how
it sounds] [do you?] I walked into the dark shadows of inaugure
these strange crumblings-curled out like cheese or paint till the
grey head droops into a chalice blood-red and stained with garnet
wine dripping drooling beneath his wine-stained elbows, arms- pick
your words at random (so carefully, beware) so that no grave dangers
find your whimpering but

pinching my nose between two

pinching my nose between two fingers ><
these days have movt to autumn
where have all my summers gone?
when the clericues and damsydoes are spurling in the sun?
do I have the wit and wither to weather some new thing?
does my cluttered <5 weeks! five w@@kends!>
brain have mucho things to bear?
but can it wallow in this new spinning?
so that it bears sticky and fleshly sweeting?
so my mind doesn’t sadsad itself into a sadness…?
but seizing horns (ya ya, I know) is worth…?
until these goligoes…
but now I’m talking nonsense, even more than usual.

If we could try a new way of being? how much could we fit into our new self?
how much could we fit into our portmanteau/neglectful packers?
cheese…. cheese… (can’t keep my brain on a straight track)
like spiderwebs it just mangles new thoughts into scattered ones
when once walked through