I have necessarily been incommunicado for the first two weeks post wedding—not because of our honeymoon, which remains a week away, but to recharge. Too much socializing, an unceasing onslaught of novelty, and a hospital visit consumed every vestige of current powering my scarcely animate carcass. This of course, requires copious explanation.
Always scheming, scarcely dreaming—is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake.
A tawny force a’canting,
in a melancholy spire,
does cry and waver, ranting
among blackened souls afire.
Well, there we have it. Barack Obama is the 44th President of the United States. For the most part, everyone I know views this as a preferable outcome. One, for whatever reason, perceives Obama as a “dangerous charlatan.”
Espouse that fantastic land, that porous slate through terrible glade. Wisps swim to curl night among ether and silver shale—pale vortexes swept and sullied, inking silken scrawls for rend and rape of dreg and coughing man. Entail, so wroth be the wanderer, of platitude and tale spoken beyond listless temper. Echos or whispers or tide-battered bones slipped to steal unwary souls and filth and empty blood borne of order and contempt.