06-23-2022, 11:47 PM
Can Be Seen Lurline's Play
A helicopter is something
you don't want around the head.
A shaking, spinning matter is dangerous.
This camera with no sound set of eyes,
what is its business?
The invisible neutrality is alarming
not alarmed.
Alternately assertive is
the glaring filial Pronoun,
a tour's official vision or
town torn to bits
by sacrosanct signs.
Clarity immodest and foggy.
Too, there's a freedom
past a tree in a wood,
that tree and that wood,
at night, that way on that road,
the same and different,
motion without official vision,
maybe a few notes picked up
from songs, hairlines in a dream,
figures only known on the yellow air.
A whorling garth makes the rules,
how she sweeps canvassing her dust on the land.
Each pick planted and allowed
to convey,
endear and officiate.
Administering one's own royal play.
Wispy light-keeper, unconcerned to
betray history for something unsullied.
Entitling the amateur beauty in a queenship demure
or hoydenish invention,
like one in a long line of sidhe queens
or the rainbow's daughter, no provision but an orphan face
tying her hair up with a purple ribbon.
Prepared to preinvestigate things unknown.
However mysterious, they're hard-minted,
the incarnated roots and their colored vessels.
Tickling an icestorm, dusting off a dinosaur,
depositing sputtering manmoth, divergent potion,
system of fungi beyond nutritional category.
Strange still being fun,
putting human veins in the ground
intwining their shadows.
Every guide is sensible,
the bear and the hobo, all that dies
is temporary attention.
A field with no trees for a season.
A freedom past exhaustion is what's
needed for the plants.
And candles in mirrors.
Sapped evolution is plural,
maneuvering a sure way to tease
a serpentine void, rooted and unfixed.
What cell can withstand the wayward
plight of wandering Woot?
Decalcify the shadows,
not set them free?
Shaking, spinning as they do.
A helicopter is something
you don't want around the head.
A shaking, spinning matter is dangerous.
This camera with no sound set of eyes,
what is its business?
The invisible neutrality is alarming
not alarmed.
Alternately assertive is
the glaring filial Pronoun,
a tour's official vision or
town torn to bits
by sacrosanct signs.
Clarity immodest and foggy.
Too, there's a freedom
past a tree in a wood,
that tree and that wood,
at night, that way on that road,
the same and different,
motion without official vision,
maybe a few notes picked up
from songs, hairlines in a dream,
figures only known on the yellow air.
A whorling garth makes the rules,
how she sweeps canvassing her dust on the land.
Each pick planted and allowed
to convey,
endear and officiate.
Administering one's own royal play.
Wispy light-keeper, unconcerned to
betray history for something unsullied.
Entitling the amateur beauty in a queenship demure
or hoydenish invention,
like one in a long line of sidhe queens
or the rainbow's daughter, no provision but an orphan face
tying her hair up with a purple ribbon.
Prepared to preinvestigate things unknown.
However mysterious, they're hard-minted,
the incarnated roots and their colored vessels.
Tickling an icestorm, dusting off a dinosaur,
depositing sputtering manmoth, divergent potion,
system of fungi beyond nutritional category.
Strange still being fun,
putting human veins in the ground
intwining their shadows.
Every guide is sensible,
the bear and the hobo, all that dies
is temporary attention.
A field with no trees for a season.
A freedom past exhaustion is what's
needed for the plants.
And candles in mirrors.
Sapped evolution is plural,
maneuvering a sure way to tease
a serpentine void, rooted and unfixed.
What cell can withstand the wayward
plight of wandering Woot?
Decalcify the shadows,
not set them free?
Shaking, spinning as they do.