And neither is there pain

And neither is there pain
An horrible thing, again
The harsh thralldom
Secreting momentless agony
Over the sensate thrust
Magically momentless
And lost, lost over losings
Where trials seal logics
Against the willed moment
Orphaned and again, then
The silent sluice of trust
Not that there is / was trust
Thrust, the gainless moment
Sacrificed by dams, thrown
And the agentless moment
Sequestered against semen
And the lost marbled age
Truncated that abets ages
Against ages, and all against
The thrust of mommy and
Aghast oh it was dead that
One, the thrall, the thicket
Taken over trumpeting
Tickets taxed beyond recall
Or over the over the over
And that, suddenly suggest
Or eager or buttressed or
Ore, or against the sad twixt
Momentless dead thangers
Not that things mattered
In mixed companionless
Ways halved hexed and
Hardened over eagerless
Leagues, let nothing happen
As happens, or equals un
Equal to all that happens,
Appears and sweaters the
Mixed up sadness concrete
And concreted against foul
Thickened squirts, or the
Over party gets guts its not
Had to have that way, not
Over that way, ever, and
The dead dead dear guts
Of staunch dead dear guts
Or the sealed over parties
Of that being there and
That being that, there, and
There, being, that, there
Or there were orgies over the
Olives and the olive branches
Branched over the orgies
And all coming was come
And all come was coming over
The orgies, the olive branches
In the Roman sense of that
Or Greek, doesn’t matter, just
That things were once things
And’re now things, maybe
Again, or maybe not things,
Again, like leaseless dead
Matters hardening over
Harvests at any time of year
That bakes makes things
Into what can be used to
Be what is of no use, what
Will never be of any use, not
Now, not ever, there’s that
That has to be considered
Inconsiderately over the
Had match beaconing slick
Where slick might happen
Might never happen, might
And the egregious matter
At hand is hand, is hand
And the hand is not the
Egregious matter but is
Is the hand, the hand, only
Shall we say that, need we
Say that, only the hand, no
The hand, enough stood
Against the arbor fettered
From cowboys and cowgirls
Beating their selves cowish
In the cowed light, against
All other lights, no light, and
Light, walking eagerly over
The sands, almost said stands
What matter the walking, the
Over, the walking over, the
Toward, the ward, the to, the
Toward you, you, you, the one
Over, over toward, to, to
And all that slushes up
Is not slush, but eagerness
Or the half-life of larvae, or
The larvae living more than
Half a life, given the off-chance
That larvae exist, that life
Happens, happens to larvae
I don’t know, there’s the trip
Up the side of the trip up
And the casual abandonment
Of abandoning what is casual
For what is abandoned, in
Other words, the way things
Are, the way things usually
Are, and against that, if there
Is a that, if that is a that, the
Momentless, momentless
Again, again, surety of happen
Stances, held up against the
Walls, walls of help, held up
Against help as if that were not
A place that it might be
Agreeable to be, for someone
If there were a someone, a
Someone who might be
Agreeable to be, shaking
Shaking the specterless
Shilled moments of shaken
Abutments that slack, sick
Over the warded harvesters
Maxing out at masked balls
With millions of nothings
As the target, the reward, and
The happenstance, the simple
Happenstance, of being there
Or there were old organdies
Presuming organs in the slick
Stilt mire of growing things
Emaled and over all that the
Formed female femaled where
Washing occurs without stop
Or surcease, stop, or, surcease
Letting legendary morphs get
Imageless in the larded stiff
Stuff of stiff stuff, stuff stiff
With the energyless morphing
Of energy, morphing, swept
Scepterless across the scanned
Dunes where hard hearts hit
Morphed runes and accept
Imageless torqued splendors
Sitting unequal to nothing on
The lady like ends of all that
Ends, of what ends, and the
Grim sequences of stilton
Eaten, eating itself really
Over the glens of fens and
Under the trip wire that sends
Warmth where warmth is
Needed most, between, where
Where, and we know it all, there
Is nothing we don’t know, nothing
We do know, all, there is only all,
Fomenting change, and change
Less ness, the sad ventriloquistic
Morphing of getting, a sad
A sad thing happening only
Under ground, where ground
Grows, but knows, but knows
Nothing, This Is The End


Alan Davies

Flatbush resident Alan Davies authored numerous books and can be contacted at