Moments escaped
from the grubby clutches
of the fear-fucked mind,
it's silly, bilious projections
of a false inner insufficiency.
Instantaneous instinctual linguistic refusal
of the arcane and of the exclusive.
Flashes, single notes sung out
among a rush of shifting echoes.
Green shoots of the possible-
for you, for me, for all
who paint without the lines,
can not stay straight,
stay safe, stay quaint.
No comments:
Post a Comment