Ottid
Belied in the sky’s underworld-overworld
stormed thoughts, beknighted in black lightening,
sir death is suffocating in the dust of rages
blown across the incontinents of a thought
that whatever is, it isn’t here in the air, or there
deep in the ground, but deep in here (taps head).
Inconsistencies tumbling down the up escalator with
faggots of light waxing lyrical in puns so dark
that they congeal blood in the strata of the mind.
Mind you go no deeper now. Do you hear me?
Echo’s echo - Do you here me? me me me ...
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