November

The best and worst of days drip like stalactites from her whole.

Cursing the indefatigable soul,

and spots congregate beneath my hair.

I can sit here for days and watch my hair grow,

Listening for the tree

Calling in the silent forest.

Bodies that lie in the path of trains of cognition

Staging a coronation of my mystery aches with

Grand Names.

I'll sit and let the entropic room decide my fate.

To be pacified or roam, my skins gained a

Mahogany veneer after my trip away i'm told.

Days of serving eclairs to the old have me

Entertaining byronic flights around the continent,

Their faces creased as used tissues and just as sanitary-

Hair Growth dipersed in the gardens by their looping ears and tunnelling nostrils.

The state box tells me that the french are striking,

As does page 25 of sentimental education.

Oh Well,

I think,

Let them

Roast cars

Served with

Molotov's on the

Platter of the

Tarmac!

The suburbs are an inferno tonight.

Here amongst the retired i'm catching the tails of fancy-

Climbing aboard towards an exploration of the soul-

Its facets, the beeches, the mist urge in

wist for my departure.