I’ve written those books forbidden..
Devils, sit smitten.. Me, with a gift risen.
Situate cannons on rocks or cliffs… When
shot, no miss. Dismiss recurring alchemical
riffs. Each manuscript, kept in a vault..
Californian, slept on a fault.. Boiling in
Life’s malt. What is this category called?
Pacing in halls, racing but stalled by my own
Reservation, irrational hesitation–
Blizzard deduction, wizard self-instruction.. My own induction..
Scribbled combustion.. 20-13’s Emerson.. Who can you sight better-than?
I fight weather spins, anti-climactic..
Tied paradoxically in my own habits..
My bone’s stat’d.. So I move on..
Trepidation of 2 pawns.. But a new spawn.
Re-spelling my frames so they erase any blame–