LETHARGOS [rutneck augur and the silver fleece]

Wheel, chair, lamp, desk –
The edge of the experience as it
Returns to me,
Post-actively present,
A piecing of the weights that
Must be los(s, t), shame as it
Regains an active form,
Relative pressure.

The grind of open shells and black cocaine,
Explosion in the way of what’s remaining
Close to the ground, and inspiring.

Is it that the crawl sees,
The crawl moves through me –

Tumourous, tumescent and much
Sooner than expected:
The death of tripping flesh,
Limb of obscure distress
Awaking wildly.

Next to the bed where she limps,
Sits upright, is reminded:

“Come you slept to this chest of
white bone, split to the point
that not rest, not my hand –
not he there who observes us
and knows – could relief?”

– That I could (and he can) raise an
eye to my own and be fled, drench
to the bruise and there lie, laze
and lifeless; a sore to behold and
be held by this sorceresspulsion.

Pulse (made to pulse) and feel
Slow held against my own flow
Of remission.

A means the one as one more,
A one among many exploring
Myself bound to steel and a warning to

Lo! turn’t the wheel;
a blow to the spine’s not for long,
is then feelless. the strap as
the evil contraption that sees us
unable to cope, un’way to escape
til a stroke stays the hand
that’s resisting.

Praise the lace for its thread and go free,

The ancient saying is no strand could
Withstand false sympathy.

But good rope is thicker than blood.

And some hangings (as some loves)
Must go by destiny.


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