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