As Is What Was is a collection of poems created with no thought at all. None. There is no control over grammar, sound, rhythm, idea, or anything really. Why? I thought it would be fun. Is it insane? Absolutely.

Past the moors

Dried and depressed

Past the daisies with bowed heads looking down at their roots

Are the fruits of simple temperatures never wasted

By caravans and trailers

 

Over the clouds past the breeze full of grime

Deep beneath the acorn trees

Are televised rhythms where the badgers

And the mandrakes roam

Mr. Fox is a myth

But the burrowed networks are not

 

By the river bedded in the silt

Are the weavers with their red entrails

blossoming into finer superstitions

Swearing by talk so soft it hurts immediate breaths

There cannot be any counting

Not at all

That would be a disservice

A disgrace even

But now now children

Grace is an overvalued commodity