Echolalia

Horse's ass, always!

The found nasturtium brings holiness in its wake,
and we, fatigued,
know nothing of guile,
of spit,
of rancor.
Germs, unfrozen,
cast crows before the bloody majesty of a north Texas dawn.

The matter sits thusly —
thus and so,
thus and so;
and I'll be a cusséd clown
who shapes his head around a frown.

Such is the skillful nature of creation:
cervical, metallurgic,
trailing filth and scale behind it.

Whatever that means. I mean,
two kisses double one, and neither are richer for it.
Let's forget living, striving, straining,
and instead fall through the center of existence
as lifeless rays whose resistance
rests in opposing opposition,
drifting instead with the riptide —
Quelle drag!