The Herald Has Fallen on Deaf; Well the Heavens No Longer Have Wings

Nothing, nothing nothing, and all we can do
is read what is no longer upon the headlines.
Fierce call’s and silly, are all that was mustered,

you could even lock the door so tightly that informants
cannot enter. Till the date is northward, deep into a tundra
the desert is here in its expanse, sitting at home, emptying the kitchen

table, each night. Not far away, we’re still waiting, there’s no rush, always another
sitting day, or play-pretend with whoever may dance. ‘Never settle’-stamps out from upon this boot. All
along; not ever conditions, to layup, at our weary.

Whether in culture stocks or our streets of Tehran, we will not know, or have without, picking our
violences, and wagering its power to illumine a structure; bound the connections and break the crusts.

assemble, in
and out the
the marginal

just not here, not

To those, old, whimpers
nor to the fashionable Modern
halls. Burrow and cages, Inform
what one is to restrict or else,

Be told by occupants.


never so sorry, to have

it out, and look. Peers, not so deep into some whimsical fray, jealoused as ever else, and it’s only a few
too many, even with deep intonation and perpetual appeal the vast will preside, and mundane likeness is
fuelled.

Where else in the far night the bells are not going to sound and no instants remain no, we only must think in such fashioned manors as to appear to live out. In the way of one’s own words, as one is to let speak.

...Is all always so late...