I am an untapped fountain
My font gurgles with wealth

I will return one day -
Bespectacled, inspired:
Mine own muse, mine own arbiter,
Mine own health (mine it, mine it by stealth)

I am an unknown self:
Waiting to be found
Waiting to be recorded,
Waiting to be written down.

Hence I shall pick from the pot,
That cocktailed viscosity of merriment and rot;
Truth will follow further -
Else embellish, ever-stained,
My palimpsest ordained by false order -

Facts gather loosely

My heart's cowled enunciations
My marching thumbprint:
"Those inevitable damned repudiations!"
Cries the foolish haze in my reflection,
Cries the searing blotches lightless to my mind's eye's resusitations,
Cries the very veins, varicose - ready me:
My resection!
Ready the scythe and re-evaluate the date of my next dissection.

Oh "in-ation"
Keep me clear of that tiresome inflection,
Skin scabbed white.
Maybe then, collected, (finally) there could
Yet be some moral chastit-inationed
consternations; God arrives fate-spun,
meaning gathered, future found upon a
woven script prescribed in at-last-
irreducible-constellations,
My heart is not forfeit! My skin may still
remain mine, mine in absolution...

This poem starts but it never ends.
I must sleep.
Or else I could write my own blood into the white light where the mind hums
Yet I inscribe nothing in particular.
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