Satyrn

It's this I don't buy. The funereal wrapping of a tight-lipped engorging personality, turgid, flagrant, an apotheosis of magnitudinal velociraptor fear and hunger. Today I wring my hands of grape juice, shake it out. Somewhere, somehow I lost the feeling in my fingers so I can touch and be close, perform ... something...but my eyes fill with cotton so I see nothing. There's a strainer sliding all I perceive, a seive slyrping the stuff I valued to a bottomless vat that's lost. Actually this is my view: where'd it all go? To be filtered...