Sunday, January 25, 2015


Change itself is the thing.
The sun on the hill never
Forgets to die. The wild
Remains predictable
On the grounds of the tame.
Strong beer, chocolate, haka

Dances, furious fights
Among the daffodils,
Anything romantic,
However bloodthirsty,
Has to be digested,
Desires to be contained.

The great god at the gates
Of the sun going down
Only mourns what he's shown.
The etymology
Of the wild choric ode
Somehow remains unknown.

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