Small Consecration

The sleep threatens to take under a contemplation of cluster chords.

Stacks of lines, stacks of lies, compiling into complements

of aphrodisitastical implications.

Bill Lee hammers away at the old grand as the rhythm moves forward,

junk seeping out of bulbs,

incandescent night-terrors,

to tremble satiate watchfulness.

All down now coming, all transparent and dim,  unsaturated lamb.

Vulva perhaps, but otherwise just another movement of CO₂ 

a flitting melodic jetsam and fluxus.