Have a look at my face – ‘face-en-face’.
Is it in the gray, grayish garden look-a-likes
of summer school watch-a-likes in June?

Is it just the prune, the preyish pastoral
plunged into the plume, and the relentlessness
of doom – done in expellers excel groom?

This free form of foul mouths astonishingly
kept in cloudy dim, dude, dodge, and drudgery.

Catch me in the case – ‘quand-en-quand’.
Does it make my day, dreadish warning motorbikes
of marry-like mere princesses of youth?

Are simply rude, the rambling retrogrades…
A rotor in a round and cycling bless
of tune – done in ecstatic extern-effort bloom.

That solipsism of souls waits willingly,
held in a hold of dawn, drown, droll, diligently.

Stretch us in the haze – hillside hikes;
up-built in our ray, radish rotten chambermaids
of character not yet seen in some rune?

So far the artillery of art’s Attila.
So far the infirmary of war’s Gemini.
So far being the tapestry of tantrum.

I stay in solipsism candle… why?


M.J.C.A. July 2004