untitled #4

will it be the days spent with you
rapturously making love;

vulgar hyena-laughter zeroed thereto.

will it be the day spent headthru
ceiling;

ragdolled pose nothingness.

will it be the laying in bed
again counting lie-like sheep;

fornicating jesus of the west speaks no more.

will there be endlike/endtimes—fires
arrive purge dawn through miraculous evening of silence
not heard;

or will it just end, muslin covered evening slopes back toward inevitable powerdown.

hot tin roof

looking out back window
rubbery watching the bag-dressed anorak
to filthy non-boots blown blustery windward

commentary: re: is this thing on;
and as the sweet smelling flesh passed by
thought occurs of the melodious type

sweet symphonic strings play


turns to new day; finality of ancient daysense done