Shall the wherefore ever ford
the tea-potted tempest
In which cream-clotted clouds
portend another place
Yet less (or is it more) inclement?
Sure, the sun shines bright on
this old home (away from),
But the glare can cause a blinding
blackness just as dark
As a moonless night.
Place this place, then, in situ;
mis en scène –
All as is and so in perfect array.
No site either sacred or profound,
even drenched in sacraficial blood
Or mem’ry’s benediction,
It stands – or lies – in morose indifference,
welling in crocodile tears;
All faux for one, one faux for all.
It will not be shamed, despite the piddling
micturations of the dearly departed.
The voiding, in absentia, reeks still,
even as the stillness drips its
poorly sown meditation.
The seedless spunk, splattered, dries
across an imagined map of desire;
Islands in the far reaches of hope.
At that edge, “here monsters be”-
And beyond, the precipice of the falls
where time flags, wherefore (again),
Place of places, like puzzled-pieces fall
into their ordered (or not)
Predetermined spaces.
poetastrophy 