the Barkleys: a ballad (without stanzas)

cuddlie kittehs @ brushy mount?

to go there expressly past 
ersatz awards for arbitrary stopping points
and Daily Planners forgetting what it means to try
together but to be alone
up there with the gorges, bluffs, and Platonic caves
even a headlamp becomes a shadow
so beyond things as to lose is to find
the self, or the terrain, a breathing underworld
what life is like underwater for years now
all this grey coming down
in strokes for traction, where’s the gravitude on this bed
of ocean, where do I lie, or do I stand among wet sand
a conch, and then the sleet
in lines to fall while yet inclining
to take that leg out of that swamp
to feel the briars scratching
the sound of a mind on doubt
puffs white smoke, an effusion from
the psychosomatic nature of feet for the
underbrush that tears
at this amusement of the motion to persist
too easily slips out from under
even the one who has done it.
what is capable.
no one has ever been here before, ever
in reverse, the bodymind ticks like a
meatgrinder. To survive the furthest
in and beyond time-comprehending words
underdevelopments are less than failings than
untapped regions to decode at frozen head.

*Note: this is not a ballad. It is a bad poem with great aspirations. But try dancing to it! #bm100

Found on #bm100 twitter feed - but missing credit. Please inform if I may use.

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