an unfinished poem by Tepes


Blowing thru the Dreaming,/
(pouring, brooding, seeming/
to be a little fantom
that might knock upon your door)/
I found a little pleasure/
that I follow at my leisure/
in confounding all the senses of the imagination poor./
the call echoes my thinking/
and i've taken to the drinking/
of that ichor-laden fluid that they store up for my meals./
my master's voice, it echoes/
my sight, it's...