"Gossamer precariousness of happiness"

I am thinking of Child Harold, 

perhaps thinking of writing the longest poem

Something closer to Kubla Khan

Or the Ku Klux Klan negated 

My memory withers, turning into mere gasps of air 

God, how I remember my wildhood 

Developing that surfacing that no Cockatoo calls back 

In me, the silence wants to be hold so 

But I see the world through the slits of your fingers 

And I don't do the massacre 

It's sunny among the bushes here 

The white gods of the forest 

Thinks of sausages 

and murder the pansy 

In your arms lies the prison.

Bub a dub. Bub a dub.

The city is unforgiving.

I see it passing.