Matt makes yet another foolish attempt at poety . . .

The Theory of Knowledge

Fly, fly
Caress the moon
Make it a hat trick
Curry your flavor
Wave the ocean
Airing whites
Imbibe
silken rose-petals
Arise, mast
Frustrate blockades
Colossus of Night
Prostrate
your violin
Bespeak that note
For elevation
Five counters of passion
Suffice it
Your turn

Sink, sink
Knees to Atlantis
the
Incense stale.
Spear for tongue
and
Salt avalanches
Ice, a bitter coat
Tales of self
Echoes of racket ball
White, bleached
Pins and needles
Guns and hand-grenades
Solemn pitch
Cracked
Heartbeat
on the pavement
Breath breath
Solely silent
Speak
Their turn

Pray, pray
This
injection
retention
patched ferry
Cut light slivers
Masochistic
Head bell-knockers
awaking dead
sobering drunk
Cords for attire
Prizefighter’s center
Roll me in
[lonely]
hills
Well-trampled
Shaken
Broke’ urn
Always
My turn