HORN FOR THE BULL

                         

                   Fielding the call our island man concluded the pen felt stroke
                   mild when so much paper wipe comes printing at you as sage
                   bush news; and old stick fighters steupsing rise recall the last
                   raised tamarind rod . old quill stain thumbs down days.

                   Arenas here all hail the matador  ̶  his tasseled heights, take under
                   rites, sweet torso moves to skirt swirl reds  ̶  blood seeders . whoa!
                   core eaters.

                   Game point's the same: the bull released to mouth piece dribble, mob
                   throat cheer  ̶  while somehow sword trust must get this bufu mother
                   hoofer to kneel roll over pass for common sense.

                   Our man chose the main road megaphone  ̶  in no way shape a babble
                   browser  ̶  sending heat at sun glass shield so drivers slant side
                   mirror blur or custom scarf for shade and virtue grey. 

                                                                               Shoot him!  ̶  you just assume
                   his dead line wouldn't from gully to post be missed; style making
                   passa passa miles true way enrolling.

                   Now with left click uplink, how do you validate? how jump
                   the wall? start search delight beyond the fissure scent . knowing 
                                                                                                            some desk
                   top king might gong vogue muscles round your user head: grapple
                   the body mass to ground: your page unfoldered . up the spread for all
                   stuffed in . passion found put out.

                                                               The end sheds bark for beaks that peck
                   at keys. It's left to signs in box set down to feed attention, thread
                   whisperings you needle. Usually for most injury to profile share is
                   configured non-life-threatening  > web worms the gut deserves.

                                                                                               – W.W. 

 

                        

                                                   
                                                     ̴   In mem.  Courtney Crum-Ewing   ̴   
                                                                        Demerara  .  March  2015           

                      

                    

                    CALL 

                     Through the voice of the very thing you love,
                       a ghost whispers: You shall unaddict:
                          this dream is yours, but not to keep
                          repeating, unless you do not
                            mind finding yourself lost
                            in a deep groove of hell
                     that is no less than paradise burst
                    rotten out of your dream's ripe accustomed sleep.

                     Now still dreaming that you're about to fall
                       asleep, you can hear a horn, behind
                         all dreaming, in a distant call
                         for release, from your latest stage
                           of dreams become a cage, 
                           to the zone beyond all
                       need for dreams this dense, though itself one
                    more crystal sigh of the Word given crisp breath. 

                   (from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)