In the middle with Adam Bond, a miscellany of mediocrities and halfways and other things found wanting.
An admission of the problems of materiality, of the inhibiting and apprehensible, and, yet, confessing to eschatological surety in uncertainty.
A poem unrolling the peculiar feelings of violation and vivisection that can and do course through the children of domestic abuse, especially but not exclusively with respect to gender norms and sexuality.
Some sing-singing lightheartedness and wordplay around All Hallowstide.
A verse in simple quatrains about the consequences of greed and prodigality.
Something that shook loose, today. A little verse, a lyric about aging, finitude, holding things together as they inevitably fall apart, the ultimate futility of it all, the entropic downdrift of existence, what have you. And here’s a not especially well-sung recitation. It’s as close to how I imagined it as we’re likely to get without someone stepping up to offer superior vocals.