A wide darkness that ceased the world
and spilled on Pan its Nile of amaurosis,
thoughtful flight from a mere reflection
to a tendril body of black weaving its habits
in dark paramour. Where Pysche cast its
freshly grown roots to the newly watered
sphere onto where grammarians lived, unraveiling
the sun. We stood perched in a line, all of our bodies becoming the cones of our soft
Endymionian eyes, for passing we became his
company, peeping into that common-void,
betwixt in a lacuna of spheres, star-alloyed.
A wide darkness that ceased the world
Brigands formed traced owls in the marching night,
boots slicked with leather and muddy incline were
rote and woven with the flowers and the dirt of champs,
verdant soot and reeling plumes of feathering ashes
blew dusty at the knees of each worn out solider, their
eyes in some ascension or another, facing the ground,
looking their part in the cold brown matter. The polychrome
cathedral of the sea looked blank and empty at the top of
the beach, its lighthouse spread out and disconnected,
each rhapsody given like Hesperus a cue for lovers to
pinion and minion their minds to their nethers, warring
for pleasure on the soft landscape of the body’s mind.
Le vitrail de la nuit récompense
que le foret vide était, et le monde est
vacant, le soleil plus lourd que les étoiles,
ma têt semée avec le rejoindre de la plage
et de l’eau, lié, avec jadis le ondulation de pensée
jadis seul ou rêvent, jadis vide ou pensant.
Powdered paragon of my gaudy conscience
spilled black on the ceramic tiles, caking the
caulk with sounds of paralysis, a first time
seeing epileptic, where colors blazon their
bellicose motley in roving hues of anarchy,
heart turned heavy and wine stains the white.
This night unturned its innards and routes to
knotted paths of unseeing error, streets glisten
like accountants’ dicks freshly sucked, buttoned
up. Their black Burberry glasses pushed tighter
on their nez, Schnauzer if you will, and piggish
tones of grunting eek reddened from the room
that had fresh begun. Each man turning in
for the night, each woman too, their eyes dashed
the stars in different light, one of woodlands
and weeds, the other of concrete and reeds.
The city had opened itself, its rivers lapping
until the feet of our lovers’ shore, its promise kept
but around the premise’s carrefour, the element
defined by dissonance, where our heads open bled.
Partners make good money.
Symbols collide in a forest built for one,
empty hair and white wisper walls cander
the weak dashing light of the boiling sun,
its appendages bright and fleeting, arms
pinioned to the grassy ode of knolled soliloquy
spilling melted fireworks in the form of
a couched sun, staining the night and clouds
a soft rending of horns, a choir of force that
wove its voices to hues of citrus reds and
berry yellows that bruised the Earth with
beauty and forméd parcels of forgotten love.
an opera singer in the radio and white
coated walls breaking from the white withall
of that wintery fall from a valley conquered by
silence. Lava stones in the median and
gasoline cracked asphalt showed the way, past
TV’s and night stands arrayed in a timekeeper’s
way, the ethernet bubbled with thoughts so
secure of unbroken shredded day that not
one message could descry a simple marble
thrown by each stain who then inflicted
existence on that cream-colored wall, holding opera and wherewithall.
The sun that unwillfully rends night
from day inverts the universe from
cold and dry to bordered heat, warmth,
and moisture of the brines -bushes that
wake up in a hazy dew, purpled and puckered,
between thorns and love and brambles
to choose. What respite the chaos
dents, like wax of imprints, remebered
curvature of the celestial sphere, stolen
in the minds of the created sons, to be
a part is to know, the universe to reconcile,
is ourselves to dethrone and with it, dethorn.
Verbosity gives me wings and slumber my safe,
exorcise the night from its ruling Baphomet, turgid
hair and gel-like glands spewing lust into the rings
of fighting corpuses, figures challenge that weight
of consciousness to don the mask of poet’s muse.
Hume’s grammarian regalia smiled and gilt, his
pressure pulling us down to see all the manacles
of guilty logic we have imbued, all science we must
am Anfang suspend, just as poetry must in fantasy live
in potency of diurnal rising to express itself, unchained.
p.p. (Latin joke for the losers among you.) I will be posting more regularly in the upcoming short future.
I remember the night we cried for reprieve in tears,
the hopes we sinned for, to slake our spines in chills,
each rapture falling closer to the elusive truth
convoluting the universe with our unworldly realms
of begotten knowledge to rend wet sea from reeling Earth.
The waveforms billow, shrink, and swim
in gray inchoate stratas, hopes for seeing
deeper and feeling a soft brink as I
reached for some infinite inverted spire,
neither with hopes of ascending nor
of waking the entrance with woven brick
mosaics, birthing upside down Babble,
where each pierced that conscious below
and fell thrice deeper than scaffolded above.
Just a partial moment where the Music
Numbed louder than the window rending air.
RIP Chester Bennington, thank you for your air that I had the privilege of knowing as inchoate breath and new songs that gave me safety from the thrashings of puberty. Thank you for a feeling deeper than understanding that lies beyond vexation, the feeling of being twisted past the senses and passed to a numbness that softly extends to the void, a unformed passion that would overcome me and leave me like a spirit that held my heart strings and made me recall that death was so near as this pinnacle, a zenith where perception was nulled and oxygen was to be exited, that roar of combusted speakers drifting down a brown slush freeway with windows down and taillights out, an escape that you gave me first and foremost. I can only hope for yours to be equal.