The Clam
I turgid the trepidation, tumescently tidal waves my timebomb
and a fat july, thick, soaked, dripping
is mopped along the floor, then squeezed.
and turgid is the twilight sky, who can squeeze it?
i highly empathize the emptiness of it
removes all doubts
removes all hopes
tersely it is juicy
then loudly it is dry
then it is heavy again; thick, soaked, dripping
a timebomb; an awaiting cancer
loosely lounges on a larynx of lament
it is complicated, conjoined, visceral
then all at once it is emptied
disconnected, deranged, and deniable
thrown out of the window
and pecked away by crows.
fast and flourishing
vibrant and and vibrating
too many t's are titillating this term;
term or being
frame of mind.
i feel like today yearns to be
but isn't
and will never be.
it mourns, because it is fat, and soaking, and dripping
with tears:
tears of joy
tears of sorrow
tears of a newborn, still unprepared
it wants to be dry, to be squeezed out all the juice of regret
responsibility, resounding rectitude;
resplendent in its repose
and i wrongfully reply
"let loose the languid laudable launch"
into orbit
into my turgid troubles
i trample, i traverse, i transgress
i even tightly squeeze it myself
but there's nothing left
but trouble, and remorse, and a giant fat cancer
like dance music without the rhythm
a body left without a soul
a seashell left without a clam.