Shall we live by music
or by ruses
or by the fuses
that blow out
from grime to grime
in pandemonium pandemica?
Life is a small thing.
This we have proven
by telescope
and stethoscope.
What does small
have to mean?
Does it have to mean
mean? Could it mean
green on green
on green?
Rhymes con rhythms
into exorcisms,
where god is excised
from a piano paired
with tongue.
Obviously, then,
atheism. What other
suggestion
do I want to bleed
out of this question?
Set us up the bomb.
We have done the
setup, been set
up, and also we have
set upon.
All our feasts
are moded to us.
Our vanilla moderation
has chocolateered us
into a melted world
of smelted averages,
split-hide
dope-den.
Do not interrogate.
There will be suds.
This devolution
cannot be revised.
And therefore
thusly
wherefore
cannot the cannot
be a low law
unto these heightlands?
The clock turns
and midnight passes
the upside down.
Night now
is our sight now
and our now now
could become our then.
Oh yes, time also scraps us.
Heap me with a few more
philologies and another history
of greening. Phytoremediation,
photosynthesis, heat death cosmic.
May our signs become our symptoms.
May our language lay lower
our lower backs
backing us into a spot
where we actually fit.
That's the narrow minded part
of my mind: I want to grind my selves
into a simple powder,
run hot want through it,
and get drunk on whatever
I really truly totally am.
Can that drink be important?
This is the impotent question.
Do not breed it with any other journeys.
That leads only to lonely gurneys.
Be reminded that I do not follow
meaning with you;
we follow the rhyme,
the rhyme makes rhythm,
and rhythm is the only grip
on the heart at the cliffside
of nothing's doom's death.
Roman Ryan 