Notebook Ink

 

A couple of simple pen patterns
in my notebook, moleskin,
Sure, they were thin to begin with
but they grew, them arrangements,
they grew like angel grapevines,
Rumpelstiltskin lines, namelessly,
rattling through: Heute back ich,
unruly and rude spinning my checkerboard ink that sticks
in a slew unheard of, spitting insane: Heute back ich,
while darkening the edges of the frame
with an outrageous vignette, and it grew
till the fibers of paper started to show up like an aliment,
the dark mark, ripping through the filament,
the black spot, wipe the evil off your chest, boy
spin around three times,
spit at the ground and ward off grey spirits sitting in the murk,
argyle pirates applaud with dropped jaws and out come the military men,
dressed up like hens beside the white chickens, a red open,
Pegasus marches out, angry and stout like a teapot,
steaming trout-smelling air up my nose, and they grew,
like intricate maydays, morose morse code from a coarse throat
without a lozenge to glaze it, longing to close it,
Left tearing until the last show,
running tears down neck tubes until the end of days,
And saying today I am back, until the end of days.

A couple of simple pen patterns in my notebook,
where could they go?