This ain’t 1830, bro. But it seems nature is all I want to write poems (or rather, sloppy quasi-poems) about, so here I go.
Castles of desire,
Rocking tides of sweetness,
Birds that know you when they see you,
Skies your soul can touch when it hears the sound and unfurls,
The urbane fragrance of autumn and the intimate fragrance of damp earth,
Dark leaves painting the foreground of the sunset with their fine dewy motile brush,
All rushes in in the agony, the awful crack of dislocation from the static cohesion of SELF, things going through me and filling me because I’m not even here to impede them.
No one sense organ is where I am, correct? Maybe I am everywhere, or a semipermeable membrane, or a filter that is often clogged.