Its Pent-Up and Innumerable Noses

There’s this, at least: the promise of a raging feast
tonight when consciousness supplies itself
with overdue replies to its own backed-up urgencies:
goes deep into the sleep of which – because
it didn’t get to bed on time – it was deprived last night:

glassed tight away from mystery because the body
couldn’t get beyond the window of Imagination’s
baby trees into its propagating forest: all it had
the chance to nibble at were trembles of the murmurs
of the barest rim of REM before it had to rise –

and then regale the waking world again: it’s clear that
this strange system needs its magic data generously
gathered and deployed in secret buoyant solitude –
the meekest and most ostentatious voluble
of temperaments which simmer and eventuate their

tastes within each singularity of self must boot their
little butts right off the shelf into the dark and play
their versions of uninterrupted and unyielding day:
pour wishes into dishes so to have their way
and swallow everything; what follows then?:

a necessary severing: a being newly born, resuscitated –
once again allowed its chow of private sweet
psychosis. Tonight I’ll laze into the requisite new
crazinesss and stay there ‘til my psychic zone has
adequately blown its pent-up and innumerable noses.


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