part one (of hippo)

 what storms up at the old monastrey

in blackness thick its dowsed traits

between one road that intersects

one takes the road aquinas sets

so much dusty air to breathe

that then upsets my weigty soul

sparing none except the wet and

barren

left on Miltons hill

a bitter blot

within my skull

i aim to write a tract

Neoplatonist, hermetic

with a Christian resolve

to show the one who made us

we accept our fate, well more or less

i took the road two lungs suppressed

a book mad temper fevering over its

thoughts oppressed,a mad poet tinkerer

who though upset is pushing up roots

down the muddy road. a tumourous existence

some would guess,in milton town i laid my bones

down, withering by the street bus sign

and spirits none coherent were whispering my

sweet death ballade sparing my rosy lungy dew

a sign thus meant to make our brethen

hang there own heads in shame

a noose to hang displayed

plus multiple telephones that rang

with messages delayed a country tapwater

solemnity set in me sweet augustine

who rang and then does ring of exhausting the expired

inspiring the crimes that wreath our heads as garlands

snakes settle in concupiscence spiralling my

high school blowjob my crimes retiring

for one last sec to dye

laying down where whispers chattering

had i want for breath

behind the bush i saw him left

in the forests ghostly division

of my eyes i saw a crime

commited evenings in flowergardens

perspiring with life anew

i saw the saints and mr william blake

aye in milton too

he spoke un me words that thoughts

as berries grew

but tired turn to raisin dust when all tombs

blow to dust there solid residue

the corpse he said come down this road

milton the town that christ did shew

a morning in august when the alert came through