Mirror Poetry

Yesterday’s meanderings:

Sing, Agathos Daimon,

of augur eyes inaugurally augenblinking.

A pile of betrayals, ripe with flies,

wasn’t enough to open them,

but that Nth-plus-one turned the dirty trick,

a lost cause found, tinkering the soul’s goal

on the track to forgetfulness’s funeral.

Grandmas sent the dirty donkey subbing, Old Reliable,

for the team’s hot stallions in a lather of neurosis.

The bifurcation fallacy foisting the metaphysics

of isolation, religion for the all the pronouns but I.

Alone again with Lucky Lucius, trudging

heavenward grain by grizzle in the desert of the fo rizzle?

This shit, the death throes of Will’s compromise

trumpeting a rictus righteous of rite and long,

uninterrupted autophagia, hemorrhaging Herms

screaming scandal at the crossroads.

Poor tinker just tryin to make his scratch.

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