There is no greater monster than reason - Cormac McCarthy
About
Automatic
poetics
Directed
poetics
Poems on file
Source code
The Prosthetic
Imagination
Stats
To students
The author
Contact
He hates the pride within regard
The fog augmenting its hair,
his reviling skin
What did his hand
do until it tasted it?
Listening as night, frugal as thing
Entertaining as regard, unentertaining as morning
Plated as shelf, torn as day
Overlook sleep in your skin
Unknown is he who abandons the muddle
of his minds, the esteem of the
eye
He can touch the pailful of
the rear
The thing of
the alienist, beyond the
tardy name
He is not a latitude,
though for years he
has born midnights, asked merchantmen with
his skin and noticed
his intent rest
Its eye dying, entertaining and remote, its
vein stooping
He is always patient in spite of
all that is reluctant
What did he show, fleeing, going within
his smiles?
He loves the envy
of people
Friend disappears in his
content faith