Calling out for collection.
Just a collect call or two through conductive cables.
Throw me a land line.
Far too tangled as between
the trident’s skewers under this sea.
I woke up here,
From a saga of the strife-filled dream of another.
Am í of this dream?
Nave, Knave, Navel, Novel
In this sphere, am í finally loųe unfolded?
I have already been so many things.
I feel weary from all this dreaming.
Again. Rising ignorant and beside myself.
Alone, in barbarous prudence.
Litle blue polka dots over my ivory stretched canvas.
Pyramid built for a moth.
Knights vainly going to nowhere fast, keep passed.
You Pure Fools will do fine if you do not hide your eyes.
Troubadours, minnesängers, trovères, you already made a feudalization of loųe
Diabolical idiotēs, you are well-endeared.
Venus stays near as my ally.
I carry but a cordon as an ornament of beauty.
My other hand holds a lamp.
Pyramid for moth.
Conducting that underground current into specific key sites.
Where lode-stones are meticulously fawned over through ritual, mysticism and magic. Pressing them firmly into earthen mound prepared.
I feel as though a hermit knight tonight.
I feel like Persephone waiting for the weather to change.
And now I am Kore: Made. Maiden. Mistress.
But Babylon awaits. So I shall abide.
In lovesome patience, heavy.