All I am is in
& all the ins are out.
The annual dispunct:
a Real brass bombast burst
this anima thirst, a monolithic durst
of unceasing war & piecing, cymbals
clattering in an iconoclast montage.
Sense?
Adolescence.
Last year a year ago a postcard
from Paris came to me drowsy,
complicit with a subject insistence
upon communal solitude: a clumsy drum
imploding in a cavity of swollen matter.
The Days of Awe, you
remember?
Dadaism, a dove, the moon face above
has nothing to offer: no meditating goddess,
no calculation of god, only sleep.
While the saints wait to gather here, woodwinds
are ululating futile desires into the darkness.
Indigo Hawkins
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/october-29/
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