A year an ear what air! Into the stoop of a risen sun — i, if i one day learn. i have always been soft, round, and mellow, and till then; a seemingly comfortable world of softest infancy …under fire i into the warm! heated! reflective!my bitch is five weeks late! How delightfully airy! & radiant! clear! starry! silent!massless! & unreadable & pallid! uncreated! eternal. young! wondrous! world of ever-new
beginnings…& i…To those i gently return, in love i over him: the thyrsus & tuberoses& pomegranates & ashpauls. Garden’s path. Ever the soil is of the grain & meadow’s adornment. Yeah(that) i aethiram i uthereth. i was dark i was to be. and was”
(from the book of Chrystalish — There’s a Riot of Burning Heart. Chicago: Randur House, 2320.)
“Well, it’s true, though you don’t see them celebrated much, these holy fools.”
:: 04.09.2318 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 