SONG TO THE LAST ANSAPHONE
Beneficent, whose will so slight and even
now shiftless by meriting zero must eradicate
zero and panic would never except
for stunned in the barest gazes clinch on everything,
this bashed-in is the face I
too gaze from or at anodyne-face,
and yet zero, yet found by the sleek touch of her
neck still to be fastened on
to gro-late auto-craver-me as up top fiery,
repeated, untraffickable outburst who goes on razes
traffic in fire and restates the celestial
counterpart in a blink and mere daylight.
Beneficent since anything like that
rhythm of trust or even bashed-in
greyed preemptive echoes of this turns
no cash midflight, is the 57 channel zero-echo and head on
any fire to get happiness once somehow
kissed and my face changed
nothing you see yet wow, what stop brusque
insta-stop love got stuck
on my head and lingo got all done-up,
so that a credited passion through I
think these deadened livid days, seeming
so wished out may like a soft face brighten.
Lust now merely for what, such as that
no-one contrives a dead-end and just names
this the midsequence you skip over
into the sunrise as who did who blinded whom cowboy, by what
news of more stricken I wince I
can cry vacantly, fill me in whatever did
zero do to deserve this, to be so held up
over the sedative riot of yes and no are you
exactly where you are,
yes or no, or do in a civil screech we run out pass
by slip from and feign over
all the beneficent life unstopping.
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