SQUARE

If there is one thing that is not certain, without or within a verbal chance, it is "there-

and-not" and "there again". To say caution is grassed "all over again" would merely say, 

would it not, that it shan't be grassed anew - having been "all over" not to mention all over "again"? How do we end things so overtly, in a time frame speaking of having once 

before? This is not pernicious or cowardly straight laundered, it is merely asked and 

therefore persists... Presits..... like my alkaline devoid in wet shape of pungent sold and 

choruswine withered like towards terminal dress-sense - a snug fit of dissolve, bought of

fine filaments late bowed.

I am not candlelight in this difference of brand-spanking new, and seeing it all through

re-threads, watching the marquis remote-control.....

                           and to be told 

while circus waits unmould,

undignified and seesaw.

There is compass in my paintbrush and I hate the living dead, I am not without a saluting

see to sigh my aching neck, and dread it is.....To worship, your hair and eyes so long

unbled, and nightscape in this high-light inbetween, of itself, and it, and yes. There is an 

imposter in the silence of the glass, there is looking and an unyet reachable, reflection must

to task.....and conjure in this regret sack, of tale removed at birth, an ensconcing lack of 

tenuous beings - a lazy, corded slap, with knife and I and ocular no more, only love is 

bound to safety, I am that I adore, and sibilant in tastiness, too frightened to know again,

a slept without a token, not even thought to web, a rise-ling as my changeling: come

saturate me to pain, the soft triangle life-like and knitting needles again.....I am all that is

hidden. i know all until I am fed, the obvious joust of trigonometry bend poking fun at

me again...an audience too backwards...a striking too much ten, as there it isn't all for 

you - brought to you time and a bend, I am without that loss for isn't any, an nothing 

without it's mend, a tapering drink at a discordant blink and grass grows around with 

when. I know if I answer there will be no more question and how will what why to cease

end? Because ending is nothing and beginning not worthy and trapezoid teething is rent.

Unlike an unglockenspiel in my tie, this ceremony and contagious, glint to burn; ice like

tight and memory defend. You are but a u-turn on my part, dear friend and lest not that

likeliness upstart in out's worthiness: I am but a....

talking again.

All over again.

                                         Bent over streets send

                                                  all over....again.