CYLINDERS


I love the unreality of my extrinsicality

The immaterial externality

Of my projection.

But this is all conjecture,

In that you do not get a true picture.

Of the mist like wisp like state

In which I create.

This attitude of gene.

I mean it becomes elemental

When you think transcendental.

Or is that a bit mental?

A block in the lock that the key doesn’t fit?

A bench in the park where the old men sit?

Could I be off the mark?

Once again trapped in the dark.

It appears a bit inconstant,

If not inconsistent of me to persist

To lean over and list.

This vaporous thread.

So I’m going to bed.

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