Something takes its toll
And some have no ear at all . . .
Stoned Aurelian
At
the wall
Looking after
All
the hidden
Associations,
Abreast
of the last
Declaration
.
. . .
It’s not what you say, it’s the way that you say it.
Spreading your wings
From the lightposts
Of Excelsior
To
the hidden paths
Of
Oom
(“Don’t tell me this is the shortcut!”)
All these paths are barren
Except one.
And I alone can tell you
Which shall bring forth life . . .
Tattoos until you make no sense.
