Mexico City, 1521
Cortes, the kilter. An elegy, worthy of figuring. Appointment to rifle.
Imagine a passion-flower. Trapezoids, drawn. Recording, I am in pain.
Some grey lines, gold. Introduction of letters, lined chocolate. To a certain
degree, feminine. I am having an atom bomb. The contours of poetry.
North, sentence mountains. Knows only, inferiority. Finger-marking the
causeway. I heart you, premeditate.
Means love, and I am presently. A settlement named Gastown. Will I write
you this letter? Arranged as memories, the story of a man, increased
dramatically. Sequences reversible. An urban centre made of miles,
kilometres-long. This Sunday marked with June. Tracks rode all the
commentaries. This great fire, transcontinental train. The written word,
still creeps. Such regulated sense.
Subterranean Blue Poetry