ode to fall

does true poetry,

turn a man into a half-dead body?

the beauty of words,

did they carry? of the jealous green-eyes

numbering hundred---of flies...

the emerald secrets of their eyes. little pocket of ocean!

I offer my flesh for thee in libation and in intoxication.

Swarm-thoughts.

overfilling the wretchedness, swarm-thoughts lined with the ancient, beatified forms

adorned on their edges by colours and scent of sharp dancing petals,

"to fall! to fall!" the jubilant bloom of daggerfalling

their doff their sweet breathes of smart paean

from morn's rosy-bruised nostrils and mouths

I don it, and it was only bitterness of a clown's irony,

sufferer in dawn

"I wish no longer to stand".

the buffeting wings of these green dragon-flies annoy me.

the earth rumbles in red rut, waiting to swallow me.

a thick, sable cope beneath the yellow mud, mayhap rejoin me

morn's a wretched deep and sound mantel

daubed in the showering of the rosy blood of words,

and marbled in bleary blueness in fear of God's jealous eyes.

the buzz and the boom...the babble, the umm...

weighed down, my half-dead body wills to fall like a cataract,

joyfully to the abyss.

Io, art thou who is looking into the abyss from where I stand.

Or the one looking out of it, at me?