webster's

untitles write themselves across
a nothing space from which it lacks a
grievous way to grab an urge create a
swelling mass of insanity in tribute to the
commonness bereft
of its commonality.
through this, of course, the words they flow
and stroke the quarters of our deepest harmonies
and sympathies;
the ears, they hear!
a-sound so smooth it slips a simple finger to the depths of the soul!
when the silk of a simple throat pitch hums and it drums with the
hurt of a rich, rich tone!
i groan and grovel to hear the blessed magic of another,
rattling off and popping pistons in the air,
boiling bubbling hurling its witticisms in the wind!
a melancholic gale, quaffing a sup from the dregs of a lake,
and heedlessly hurling its fate t'ward reckless abandon!