Pean

Oh you, Warm Winds blow me to the Dog star and there, staring Sirius and tired, make me a crown of Cassiopeia threads. I'll dance Sursaute d'Allemagne around smoking mineral springs and inhale your oracular fumes.

While you were in the bathtub I was out howling at the moon.

Rosa est rosa est rosa

May is a lusty month and now it has almost in the Ram it's entire course y-ronne. In my experience, these days are commonly packed with disbelief and that y-ronne amok-ness that comes with the first smecking of summer: a relief and a source of frantic anxiety all it's own. And occasionally I feel wondrous in that true slapped-by-a-Deity sense that comes with spring time when everything is impossible and you're sure that flowers are steaming in color. Isn't walking out the door in a way like being shocked by multi-lingual homophones (who knew that "one" and "very" would cross the Arabian Gulf into a Czech-Arabic delicious mouthfeel pronounced trippingly on the tongue?) or is that just me?

“A process of self-obliteration conducted by an effort of the will. Pleasure bordering on almost unendurable ecstasy. ...”

Tobacco's in the Persian slipper along with some harder narcotics.

(Aorists on the brain. Sackbut. The fall of the Scythian)

I take lessons from a craggy man in the lost art of forgetfulness.

(Hemlock umbels. slithey toves. Mongol 'ordes. Naru.)

We learn: Thoughts are paper cups (so facile to crumple and throw in a bin) and each meme an island in the archipelago. Letting go is as easy as being swallowed by the sea.

(Hashassination. Timesis. You abso-fucking-loutely sometimes behave so strangely)

But there are long establish trade routes and every skein of Lorbarnery silk has a name.

I am a poor student.