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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.

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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.

Hand-made

Handmaid

Maiden

Maid

Mave

Maven

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.

Needing enkindling.

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.