fungus of reason

Whywhen of twilight

Bedding specks of golden silhouettes

Lean through the clumsy closing day,

As birds read clouds, and, in the

Naked seven oíclock greyness,

Survey:

An almost child yawning

Cribbed picture winks and blinks:

A response to the creations of others.



Clutching secret pillow breaths

Of stilling sighs and groans,

She slowly speaks:

To birds that evocatively descend,

Their wings fraying as they swoop in

To land. And sheíll tuck them in with

Coffee stained napkins, to feel

something very real.



ìTry to sleep,î suggests the immortal voice to her,

like a covering kiss, un-edged, shooing

all now and this. Squashing the fungus of reason

propagating in the interstices of her mind.



Now speechless, dull dots from shameful ìIî ís

In poetry and essays now scatter,

Disrupting this dark and uninformed newspaper

(oldpaper) print. Fading fluid into a sea

of copious flesh, striving, always,

to become something else.

A thought.

A feeling.

A self.

Else.

A name?