THE VIEWER BLURS
There are some things I just do not care about :
this swish of blue color that was a car or the arm
of a chair, the way that armband tells me who that
man is, the idle achievements of a blowhard in
the feckless dark, and all his words to that effect.
The viewer here blurs the memory. The far cry
from the distant point is not a mountaineer; no,
just instead some baby crying. Tears for fears, as
it were. No solace there, just windblown and
hesitant thought running fast away and far.
I have no designated driver for the monster dreams
I ride in : mysterious circumstances beneath the leader
of the mark, the manner of the beast, the chipped and
dangled teethings of huge tribes of crooks and villains.
They run off with the lie; they run off with the future.
This viewer blurs the memory. This viewer says not
at all. I take my words for William Blake; not following
another's system at all, just instead to make my own.