All I am is in <br />& all the ins are out. <br /> <br />The annual dispunct: <br />a Real brass bombast burst <br />this anima thirst, a monolithic durst <br />of unceasing war & piecing, cymbals <br />clattering in an iconoclast montage. <br /> <br />Sense? <br />Adolescence. <br /> <br />Last year a year ago a postcard <br />from Paris came to me drowsy, <br />complicit with a subject insistence <br />upon communal solitude: a clumsy drum <br />imploding in a cavity of swollen matter. <br /> <br />The Days of Awe, you <br />remember? <br /> <br />Dadaism, a dove, the moon face above <br />has nothing to offer: no meditating goddess, <br />no calculation of god, only sleep. <br />While the saints wait to gather here, woodwinds <br />are ululating futile desires into the darkness.<br /><br />Indigo Hawkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/october-29/
