This is poetry. That's it; there's nothing else to say.

Format for a New Now
the nights Lay quickly On My Face
A Bed Of creaking Plywood Shakes
I Stir And Hope To Break this place
And silently Lose My sleeping Fate

drawn to Giant faceless Thought
And criticizing Theory Bought
structured Versus lies Still Taught
the wealth proposing Extension Of Naught

Dreams rely on the Past

Rage at Cromwell
1500 years - Wimbush mourned the passing:
"Amour's my friend.
And the magistrate's horses..."
Watching the dancers scatter:
"Let's destroy self-confidence!
Victoria's dead! Long-live Victoria!"

Still Life
I'm a big fan of how purple becomes gray -
Diluted, the true color begins to show.

Decaying -
De jure
Deployed.

Maybe the cells will finally crumble
Under the weight of years ago.

The gong sounded and T. Rex fell.
Keep the water pumping.

Join My Book Club
Sleepless
Open-closeted nights, and
Darkened,
Defiled days.

"Rip out the title page."
"I understand," I said,
Though I didn't.

Mathematics
Fails to explain, while
Religion
Doesn't try.

"What are you afraid of?"
(this is a lie:)
"I don't know."

Creeping;
Not even breathing, but
Exhaling
Sure enough.

"Don't look."
"But, there's nothing there -
Right?"

A Metaphor?
Hey!
Here's a poem for ya:
"Guy gets drunk.
Guy meets girl.
Girl gets drunk.
Girl meets Guy.
They both write
Crappy poetry."
Sounds pretty standard.
Maybe
It's the alcohol.