a fitful awakening at the gates of notwithstanding

surrounded by worthless trapping of so-called art,
unable to raise an intentioned hand to create it,
i, oppressed and maligned for the last time, swear it off:

there’s nothing there but substanceless bulwark and vicissitude,
unformed by higher principles,
unable to tell me what transcendence is.

frustrated and sweaty, heady with drink and aged far too much
to retain the subtleties and incongruencies that make up the sublime passage
of time’s feet on rice paper,
where infinity meets inconstancy,
where i rips from the passage,
an after thought, a scrap on the foot passing,

i, a stillborn photoanonimity, furtively trying to understand,
lest you deign to turn an eye,
as all above crumbles, a marginless morass, ungainly, unsupple.

the paper is ripped and i am unquiet, unable
to pass this sphinx