A broken desire to conjure
having digested something obscure,
penned by prurience demure,
wishfully trying to secure
a vision of the untainted viewer-
How inevitable it is that i use here the word "pure"?
Seed sown by some alien observer,
that cares for the safety of the meek pervert
blossoms in the awakened chambers
in the cranial recesses of a mute server.
While all the while the precious mountain
waits to be fallen off of; as we dream again
long abated memories of glorious green fen-
resurfacings need to find their niche in the pen
and in the absolved waters of Christopher Wren.
But as sure as proficient doubt beginning to creep,
weapons of purchased safety can only sleep
long into the diurnal hours in Lonely Street,
where none but the strongest hearts are privileged to weep.
These clawed fists are useless;
they want to punch out contrived beings into shallow existence
as if their accursed births might help lower the bends
and mock the true countenance
that lies unsurfaced beneath several continents
of unshaped amends;
Although picturesque pearls of damp pity give them away
they will their sodden commands for themselves to stay
and not escape the entombed buckets.
A little pious feline dropped her gaze,
averted by abandoned ashtrays.
They sought to set ablaze
the severed butts long after they had outstayed
their unworthy welcomes.
But yet the miserable cat moans
and extends tendrils of great piteousness that condones
all of its wretched everyday tones
for the nanoseconds within which lie its bejewelled loans.
Coated by blind layers of glossy indifference,
the allaying words seem not of so much offence.