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Look here.
The solar lion.
The lunar bull.
My eyes hurt, my hands and calves are sore, my neck is sore, my muscles are underdeveloped, my stomach is bare, my endurance is low, my anxiety is high, my restlessness is great.  Frequently on the heights.  Midrange panic, sufferdome, lookspiece.  Work on it work through it.  Kill the bull for better days.  The eurasian bulge, forelander.
Creation happens at night, at the body’s worst, not in the day.  Not in the day high conscious day.  At night, when the body is low, groundstruck and moonbent.
The night union is a blood room, a washing of rough elements.
This is a gentleman’s prayer to the ferocious moderns, lampsteady, writing, converting dull, painful energy by night.
Converting dull, painful energy by night.
Look here, a daytime lion.  A ferocious modern language lion picking up
Chicory, cardoon, lovage, rhubarb.  Not digesting.
The bull, always digesting, moving through the energy.
My fingers shake, my stool is rough, my shoulder is bent, my forearm is strained. Southend, lowend, downend.
Nervedriven, modern, modern.
Curving around the modern, to you, reading.  Curving around it to you.
I am begging you not to misplace me, solid, carriage eyes.
I am envious of the steadyness of your lion, in language, in health, in instinct, in motion.
To my bull, cooled, earthened, working on miracles, catching the last fish.
Surviving on miracles.

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