mourning aubade

Inside the dome of the last exploration of the vast superior magnitude of the cerebral palsied languid aura of my prior breath, we see the dome of the rock unfolding like a paper mache’ swan. Here we go again, where anything you believe is manifested in truth—the last days of fiction, the plural magnitude of the forest inside the trees, where the last swan was swimming in congratulations of the opening aubade: a poem, about morning, or lamenting the mourning of the dawn.

thoughts of the fucked up morning

My best day ever is one in which I’ve got some money on my food stamp card and a little bit of weed. Fuck it, you only live forever in my world, where all is aligned with the preternatural forces associated with the last dawn of man, where the time has become the way of the world, here we go again, into the light, where all is bright, and out of the darkness, where our laminations were still seen as being the new order of the foreshadowed dawn. Here we are again, where we may believe anything.