different!

In search of a luminary or a wrought-up age brimming with spirit
I am a well-grown eater of whelks shrimps rose leaves and mosses
indiscriminate bruised in rotten greens and blues
sotted house of all carelessness and ire
who loves ill-met and constantly
wracked with undeciphered dreams
and a metier of irresolvable complaint,
an urge to pick the vast pocket of the night
and tell lies about misfortunes on trains
bare-gutted to the new
frank empty hours like tin cylinders barrelling down
that may yet steam out as I perpetually
hope new light and fine fortune