The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


trip


now ill trip to make sense - in the midst
of my despair this even.

red rum & she was murdered. please peals
leaps pales:  sleep peels.

she'll shell: halls shall fail, waver: of
woven vows. "she vowed."

this momentum..

now i'll translate to make sense. in the middle
of an evening depression, which felt 'even.'

murder reverses the drinking of dark rum. etiquette
fales, perseveres, fades in transcendence. sleep awakens.

she'll work with machines, not in viking halls which already
disappear like so many ghosts. promises are woven in speech.

inertia drives the sounds, forcing them into words
and the semblance of meaning..


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