What fake unfortune have I to claim?
Our world of gray and decay to burst
with color from a well-angled glance or
to droop like a serum from an ascetics unfed
maw. Neither caw nor home give me roost
nor destination, a war where comfort fails
and all things are pained, torn, familied in snow,
the cuts refusing in cold to shrink and sow,
each bleat of minor storm my chest enthralls
and gives to colors and faith what my head now holds.
Sacrosanct against that scourge of distance,
closed doors and denied dreamers of the poor,
where once ambition sits now guilt proudly fits,
to eternally pain myself myself to reign,
virtue they it so call but rather a weakling
crow with tattered wings of gray matter kings.
What fake unfortune have I to claim?
Black the pith of memory walking,
a liquid abyss where ruins of Rome
shall heretofore swim, where ancient
chatter of a young cherub and swaddled
boy will laments its own losing and give
ways to riddles of day. His wicked eyes of
wetness will to a glen depart, a pause from
knotted moss. He will scamper with his
boots thrown -hidden- behind some tree,
he will break free the wretched roots of
that ceaseless verdant domain, his body
a crucifix, for he realized, all must rain.
I woke on shores that teemed of days,
their pulchrit paths of tempest waves,
air filled with refuse that I winnowed
away. Hark the lyre and the soot rote
house that gave the spire its coat and
the waves its rinds, liquor like wine or
sweets that brine in windows of clerks
who all of their fresh-washed days spat,
like stones against shore that spoke and
swore of better times with fresher shores
and windless houses with eternal opened doors.
The gazette said I’d find you here,
curled up under the bridge of concrete
that kept you here. Poets abandoned
the crates of time and filled minstrel
halls with their ugly voices unable to
mimic even a Meijer brand chime.
How sad that painters all paint on
Bamboo and all sculptures wear
masks of triangles. Where our art
on another’s found, as trappings of
bits or bytes compress our favorite
sounds. Before, so in template
imbued, that wicker baskets could
be molded from poetry’s muse,
painting a profound picture, sculpture
the likeness of man, the flesh to
the world of unerring stone turned.
Indelible still sits that soft mask of element
unbreached, unascended by man’s
pitter patter and ephemeral reach.
The folds of mirrors in window’s bound
played melodies on soft windowed clouds
that lit up the scarlet night into soft yellow
flames of mirthy delight. Lightning tempted
night and each young lip of innocent timber
locked my gait, beauty as deep as the fall,
as sweet as the apple of knowing and never
known, the pain of biting, the birth of clothes.
Two spinnings of desire spooled,
as endless mobbings of tendrils
that so to Adam and Eve resemble
but did not adhere, my mind tan
tossed in the lows and highs of
crying spines with fallen homes.
I wepted for the creeking of old
boots that marched, wood blocks
with sand stuffed between shook
under each blow of changing guard.
The fragrance of past nights and
wreckage from the flight still haunt
the wallows and waves, that eddied
city’s raved with masks of starless
nights crested in broken time’s delight,
As born from a soon sightless man
that clogged the gears of time and
gave sun its climb and moon its shine,
as if a second sky lived in an old city’s tide.
God’s tears have all dried and
their water of crystaline courses
still swirl the earth with ehtereal
etchings of homes that are with
love and bowling fields of grape
seed from Bollensen’s breeds.
Their breeching of the day to
form in their arms a second sun
with brighter rays and sharper
tones, empty drums of concrete
could not spill a heart, nor dullness
envelope itself in a more heathen
clad suit, as if boredom and want
so slipped from the pockets of
despots, to spite the ages of suns
ever spinning in larger fields undone.
So bares the fruit of tamed cities:
alabaster fronts and yellowed tinges,
the sun perpetually casting on Danube.
Doubled down coat of arms and dens
of smokers with hands full of water
and youth scuttles to the corners of
the bar with smokeless tobacco.
The streets exhaled of its ancient
masters of dusty dells, empty stone
palaces where coats of arms knelled,
their swords and halberds in verdured
shade from the swaying wooden bars.
Metal to formed as if to veins
it could ever fit, twisted signs
of open and hidden marks of
tempt desperated the question,
barraged the bearer of those
that sook the sparks of a blue
eyed tumult with rough lines
fitted to some smoothe figure,
flowing as a river swallowed
in streets gilt, therefore abhorred.
I saught not fever nor coupling,
merely ingress beyond the core,
a truer falsity to beckon at my door.