From Form

Living indifferent.
Another harmless genocide:
something small, something large, something spurious
in vaguish nouns like neosthesia
keep us rapt,
our essence liminal,

croaking sub-liminal,
the castle in December, indifferent
to snow, dinner on the first floor whore d’ervs rapt
(banquet sounds) rather genocide,
ain’t it? Take off your mask and look me in the face—neosthesia—
about time, Face the Spurious.

Words are always in focus. Spurious,
they knock and knock. When living is liminal
can we choose between Zoloft and neosthesia?
Pause. I thought so. You remain faithfully indifferent.
True to type, again-again genocide,
wrapped the whole mess is rapped watching rapt

a conflagration end of days SFX spurious rapt
& so entrapped. Spurious
I begin a sentence how it ended. Genocide?
The clock ticks knock-knock, sound and no form. Liminal.
You and I are so different. You and I both indifferent.
I wish a song to sing that ripples thru my legs, neosthesia—

a noun like a verb means new feeling neosthesia,
kick down the doors the word’s keep is rapt
enrapture indifferent
colorful biscuit kick down the doors you spurious
limp kid. Whose voice can cast the spells with liminal
metrics measures back again to genocide?

We can’t stand the genocide.
Our geas: inject neosthesia
in wounded Man. Thus ends genocide. Methods liminal,
figure one: the seasons. Viewers rapt.
Searching and searching through spurious,
we find our own lives in different

phases, barbecue, two-tryst, genocide, always rapt
to nesothesia, shiny and shimmering, spurious
feelings, liminal. I must be indifferent.