but each truth-seeking man seeks no marriage, no eden as such, but the turbulent fate of a brotherhood: a family of men thrown into the depths of the north sea with no sight of feminine comforting, for a thousand years at least if note more: so she might be strained for giving affection and refrained from philandering: the wiser the man the more reward he sees in a brotherhood, than a harem.*
that seagull white backdropped against the plum
purple bruises of the sky pampered with immediately
lashing out a torrent but for seagull's sake
withdrawing for a consistency of colours not mingling
into a drear opening of a letter addressed
for some dear mr., in that virtuoso of waters cascading:
wishing i too had no umbrella
or be miniature under a mushroom,
as i am and forever will be, an ant's lack of sweat lifting
its bodyweight and more over bookmarks
and crevices we sweated rivers for,
and died, exaggerating... the outlasted remains
of chiselled rock, when others took to
climbing non-chiselled rock of mountain
for a compass they thought would
make others plagiarise their lives for theirs,
having accomplished the climb of the heights
thus suggested with no other comparative issuing
of demands... indeed to what height to what
depth is there a guarantee to be given?
to what depth to what height is a guarantee
of adoration lawfully bindingly fulfilled
with red carpet 24 hour surveillance paparazzi?
we have unlearned the face broken
by stone and forest pine...
instead we learned to be an epileptic narcissus
blinking into the frozen mirror of the lake...
but our face breaks a thousand upon a thousand
more times like this... for in looking elsewhere,
we forsake ownership of the things that
never reflected us, but were made mandible by us,
so now we have become mandible by them,
for the once prized mirror of narcissus in the lake,
has become a blinking circus act we dare not believe.