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.
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My love. I hold you close to me under my wing. If you need anything just email me seriously. Like… the contact form on my blog page. If you want. You don’t need to or have to.
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