Murmurations

Although this poem can be read in the order you design, what is written within – like the segments of a psalm, or paganic exultation, like a rewritten constitution, or going back on your own word – is the order in which this mad god creator determines his creations shall come, in what order they will march.

But this kind of realisation – this kind of emphatic rule-making – is nothing compared to the passage of time, illusory, vastly improper, like snorting cocaine at a student house party you were invited to by accident…

Let me be plain.

I wrote this. I forgot about it. I found it again. And in that period my thoughts & woes have changed & rescaped my haphazard mind. I am a paradox in motion. I say things I do not mean; mean things I do not say.

Accept the rambunctious echoes of a previous me, and know that is the same as this me, and this future me.

Judge if you must, but know in a few hours time, I could be buying you a drink, or starting a revolution, or lying in bed.

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