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July 6, 2015 by bluberie

Your humming will be different.

Much like an ode to the Grecian Urn,
It will titter at the edge of your warbling,
Before flowing into a cascade,
Like the catastrophe that dances down the sun road,
And winds up in chimes that have the skin of moonlight,
Saying beep…beep…beep,
Inviting the gulls to peep.


There was after,
Just like there was before.



It was the Bronze Age,
Or maybe, the iron one,
Or maybe the one with Peloponnesian wars,
Or something else…



Like when Napoleon had too much of red rum,
Or when Winston said he was in love with an Indian nun,


Or when the nuclear swarm hit them like bees,


Or when the sun felt like making love to the seas,
Or when Miss Muffet went to the President’s ball,
Or when Charlie said, “our oh-so-modern times are basically fuck all,”
Or when Pablo said “I’ll have it all,”
“I’ll cut into it into two, three, four,”
“Many, many, more…”



There was before.
And in the after,
Your humming was what
Held it all…

But then,
Your humming will be different.

The serpent of time
Will crawl over the walls,
The frog of seasons
Will croak till it’s dawn,
The gnat of years
Will make that most important call,


Hissing, bellowing, hunting,
Asking for a total halt.






Moments before the final hush,
Your humming will be different,
Just as it was
When with the falling leaves,
The morning sun played handball.



Your humming is different.
(Magritte’s was too.)

This is not a pipe,
But the soul-house of oysters.




Your humming is different.


Your humming was different.


Your humming will be different.




Marcel is sleeping.


Let’s wake him up?




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