Composed at Bayshore Coffee Company

We scions, we kings of our gardens of earthly delights, we ARE-
but we know not what
and so we spend our pupal
vegetative time at the bottoms
of bottles, in the stems
of pipes, actuating ourselves by
losing ourselves, no real way
to find ourselves.
But perhaps in every poison is an ounce of potion, a spare hidden drop of panacea to clarify and to calcify the fleeting phantom images of the next page past this vagrant verse, in which we mannequins of sense and skin masquerade as men.
So scream- scream to shatter
the silence which stifles introspection;
intone not God's thousand names
but your own: all hundred thousand
thousands of them, let your names whet
whet your appetite for yourselves, lick
their taste from your parched
lips; sate your self for once,
not those stillborn passions with
which we tease and seduce reality
to bend itself to our whimsy.

Take me home, oh feet; instruct me, oh mind, in the science of sleep; forget me not, oh deathly one; for you are feet and mind and vein and virus: intervene, oh angels, save me from myself and from him, whatever the difference may be.

"WHAT IS TO BE DONE,
WITH THIS FRAGILE, TRANSPARENT
SOUL,
THAT BREATHES
INSANITY
INSIDE ME?"
-Darla

Whatever your art is, you must infuse it with some insanity; but that mold of manic passion is the raw marble block we exert from within ourselves; once we exhale the insanity from the bottom of our soul we must temper it with the order of discipline, the knowledge of form, which informs the shape of art as bellows and hammer inform the shape of molten steel
Thought then word,
Spirit then form.
Coalesce, oh inner air of passion,
Oh transient muse, make
of my body and my blood
whatsoever form you hold
latent within yourself by the
grace of whichever beyond from
which you emanate;

And let yourself emanate
from each and every beyond;
spare me not the full magnitude
of my own nascent vision.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, September 25, 2009, except noted attribution to Darla)