I am demon and not daemon.
Breathing unfocused energies and bleeding clotted Forms.
Infused with the muse’s poisoned juices,
Making dunes of considerable itch on my skin.
The Culprits are evolution’s blood leech.
Winged musk-beasts. Such teeth,
Such complete devastation to feel crushed beneath.
That which takes from my slowly ebbing reserves
Simply replenishes something else’s.
Are these epidermic dunescapes truth makers?
An epidemic concordance of soothsayers.
We breathe alike too.
I swear I felt the mechanism that keeps the sky blue.
Language conscripts itself with the reasoner’s encouragement.
So yes, that must have been the demon I knew.
Beneath the sky, truth keeps fleeting by,
Who speaks just like you?
The nine solar instances,
Through which to remain reminded of the recycling entropic.
Ontic-tensed logic, like reaching for your coin-purse,
Or your wallet shoved inside your wet pockets.
Those are choice words! Chosen freely through and beyond me.
I’m just a visage envisioned through lack.
The shine of the darkness. The impact of the shift from
Pitch black to the light of noon.
No doubt the sky would move for you too.
Our structure is in the connective tissue;
Not reducible to the system which gives rise to its own means.
Another dune created by June.
A mere two-fold gesture from clock’s triumvirate.
My skin is an atlas of history and philosophy and poetry.
But what goes on within this skin?
Within this skull of such weakness to impulse.
And they heard the call;
this time, with empowered deceit reinforced by those mountainous trees.
Bulwarks holding fast against full force. Control the Pass.
They learned to fall with belief in their concerted cause.