I studied myself at lower complex ability

Reached sub-sequential meaning 

Of Love and lust 

And more or less

Visages of long coherent swallowing

Cold, the set is dark

Cold stage, the stage is waxed

Foul moments I’m after, one after the other

And I up-turn everything

Conscious, concerned, then struck, pricked, below the fingernail with the tiniest pin

I end it

WIth a point of vastitude pointlessness

A middling fore-longing permanent reaction

Of less let go, but no denouncing 

The ghastly wrinkles 

You see

The sharper the angle, the clearer the vision

I wreck pass the faintest whispers

That is my own, and mixed with twenty 

Plenty of words, spoken in whispers

I trust those soft so gallant voices

So I shall detour clean