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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Ocean End of Lion: Seasonal Guesses & Caesar Thing



The edentulous mentionings of Spring, its unpublished

vocabularies, blame multiple geographies, for many a sun-dried

sundry, and raiment of rain and descent, profusions

in the South, the peculiar eulogies of Spring,

resplendent and lactescent speeches of the Spring ending

in the South, depositing the grains of Summer, granule profusion

of the use of green, which demands the lactescent,

these things begin in the seasonal Caesar I am.

The iridescent guesses of the Winter compress

the milky earth with glowing, but the Spring begins


below, and utterly in snow, where the cinquefoil swivel

of the trees in the failing foil of the Spring reflects

Augustan guesses I am, the ironing singing of Summer,

the Senate of that season, deliberating with the rain,

which decides that season, and the sodium in my throat,

that crying, gigots of spit the rain had been

in iridescence and innocence, dehiscence and efflorescence

of the lactescent Summer, that opening season, an occasion

of deliquescence. There was a guilt inside the marsh,

I was a predicament of guilt in grass, a prerogative


for the incorrect in green. Still the sodden season

of the Spring continues Caesar mentionings in me, which

ridicules the blur of fur the lion is and I am not, the Spring

decorated and deconstructed by the rain,

the efflorescent solvent of the rain, merging

the conversations of tentacular vegetables

with snow in vernal appellations. The tree in the marsh:

maleficent, cinquefoil; the tree in the marsh: mellifluous, maleficent;

the tree in marsh: location of the incorrect in me,

what I have done to me by doing things to you,


so Tammuz won’t return to me, not as the stars’ tenacious ice

yields to the suns warm liquid in Autumnal mumbles,

assimilating in that gaseous sea, that marsh,

contiguous to guilt un-gilded by the gold-similar leaves

in the cinnamon conversation of that season near the sun.

The tree in the marsh: an adequate source of violence;

the tree in the marsh: the mollifying Consul of my skull;

the tree in the marsh: black season. The cincture of a swivel

in the water near the gravel of the flavored island

was small as I am small, but correct in its wetness,


and on this island I am politic in animal dimensions,

and I am a knowledge of Autumn that becomes an action of island

in its leaves, a Caesar in that foliage, Tammuz in vivid dirt,

and I am expert in the seasons of the dirt

this island converts, under hands of suns, to plants.

The profuse-est elegies of deliquescence the island is,

make me the song-Adonis of the fauna, enact

the rituals the island culls from me, Tammuz in that vivid fuzz

of growth, and then we are in the kingdom of lion,

the ferocious diadem of animal politics, which


the tree in the marsh ignores with innocence

of oceans, and hate with ignorance of the internal

vernal possibilities I am; the tree in the marsh:

no vivid bark; the tree in the marsh:

vividly uncomfortable; the tree in the marsh: genital

branches; the tree in the marsh: the cellulose source

of guilt in a plant, where vernal diversions

of the people can involve the sun and nuts as brown

as hair, which declare the season in their taste;

I am in the tree in the marsh in this season debased.


Regardless the thought of the sea was not the sea,

but the sun, that solar raiment and animal

arrangements the kingdom can arraign in it,

the Caesar-snowing deity of birds, vivifying

trees and grain in green, the vivifying profusions

of kings of lions, and fake Caesars of belief,

tentacular in his accomplishments, as vernal

profusions of the use of the farm were the lance

and the lance was the chance of belief

of mentionings and kings; the vernal King deliberates


in dirt, and the conversion of his people

into Spring and gods, where I demonstrate

the azure of the water, that Caesarian azure,

azure assassination, as I am a chameleon in camellias

of the water: I was as pink as rivers I was in the spring,

pink and green with bright dirt, the pink and green

aquatic. The despotic chromatic scheme of the island

and stream demand only green, and I obey that seasonal

demand, as the marsh is no more free than the green:

the King owns the tree and guilt, owns the vernal means


of my guilt, lactescent symbol of my situation,

edentulous in its lack of leaves, its spoiled eulogies

forgetting filial camellias in this region

of seasons in milk: Summer dilemmas,

Winter solutions in the iridescent, those lactescent

Spring equations, and Autumn’s location without equator

in no season, and this in the tree in the marsh;

lactescent Caesar of the spring I am, I am the deliquescence

in the dirt, the guilt, and the Empire approaches

in this failure; the Empire is green in me.


In Autumnal mentionings, I am the tree for dying bees,

am the island devoid of the vivid, the ownership

of bark this ineffable Autumn demands

the objective extinction of the seasons

in a location without equator in the lack of season

Autumn is, that lack of gold like leaves we believe

to utter Winter, to utter Tammuz abused

by the azure generations, in the sterility of foliage

of Autumn, that failure of the plants;

the wishes of the Spring that I can grant

I grant with plants–plants and a descent

into the guilt the tree involves the marsh in,

and that entire chromatic lactescence in;

gasses dislodge from mud with ease;

the vernal approaches; I am the tree for dying bees.

                                                                Jackson Wills