The Gate

And nectar, which provides fair bugle for the feathered humming fowl,
At once removed, remains the pith of a flower.
Earth be protected from the prurience of life-
Thy golden sliver of renaissance persists between
Petals and air.
Such is the purfled gate whereupon wing and beak do twitter
Further searching and anon to golden water at no end.

Hence due it may be to pay homage to Bacchus
Who did have in the depths of his red-stained glass,
A bundle of pearls.
Into these depths 'scaped the bundled sea virgins
Filling his belly with disagreeable coil.
Let it be known that even the wine god, bastard of vine,
Lay immobile betwixt common medlar,
Seeking refuge among its cool verdure-

Hereby posing candidly impositions of desire;
At once, which is the flower that boast the nectar most divine?
Here the flower hath birthed a most treasurable serum
And, in turn, it hath flaunted thine serum dubiously so.
The hummingbird hath taken with fervid insatiety
Therein, 'tis not the flower that boasts
Profoundest sweet nectar,
But the blind captors.

And the birds are flying with much difficulty,
Oyster shells lay barren and exposed,
Bacchus curses his hands.
For in these hands he can not admire
With mind of that mingling
In which they are accused.
And to tempt oneself impetuously with slanted joys
Is to redefine humanity, mocking demi-god to god.

Who, I ask, shall consider thyself challenged
With one hand full of pomegranates
And the other, hard rubies?
Was it nearest today that I gathered,
It is only when one does require
This which nature provides,
That we shall defy indulgence
And be quite still, as she.

Moth Elegy

I.

How impatiently do I take life's lessons
Spoon after spoon, in mouth again?
It is sojourned, a cycle of measure
Whereby stands before a ladder betwixt.
That which divides soft heat of the evening
Is a roof that I should hope to ascend,
O' sweet corpulentia, seraphine evening
Forever, definitively, makes amends.

II.
A sentient master opens his book
Whereupon I graze listlessly upon its bound spine,
Amongst its blank pages, a pitter-patter
As I continue trailing nothing behind.
And much like the courier with his sachet of letters,
Uncertain- his foot holding finds no peace,
How precisely he delivers of that unknowingstly,
A duty kempt with incorrigible ease.

III.
And still the mystery one delivers
Stains the palms with chimerical ink,
O' what qualms progress from days of naivety!
Still, I am spoon-fed by the ageless rind!
Uneasy is the fledgling mouth which
Distracts fresh thought with movement.
Pitter-patter,
Trailing nothing behind.

IV.
The solitude of human action
Trots lightly like the cupboard moth,
Its diaphanous wing bathed in solace
Chary as not to shed its dust.
For it is the cupboard moth who seeketh the flame
Despite the flame be not the sun,
It leaves no trace for I beseech
The journey long be quite my own.

V.
How austere the world for newborn moths
Who cling to bulbs with no effect,
And tedium clings also to the poet
Who suffers near drearily, the dimness of light.
It flickers and flaps from the poet's own candle
The effect be most gentle save obscurity to sight.
As wax curls the wick in dulcet waves of a shoreline
I continue trailing nothing behind.

Counsel to the Patrons of Tragedy

"Then there was the one, Don Juan of self-delusion..."

There were pillows on which acid sounds

kept the moment.

There was sex one would call success.

Filling pockets with sand

Feel it there now

Those dirty remnants of old stone

Shattered by clockwinds.

Inability to keep each singular grain

These have already learned to accept their meaninglessness.

Voices indicating some functioning world

Are but amplications through the bloodstream.

Does one keep moving and working hard to make

Soft waves curl over the shore?

O' surely not.

Patrons of tragedy,

Sit by the window

Rest assured,

Exposure to light

Is good for you.

Lesser Concerns

A dark woodgrained curl rests spiraled
Over the shoulder with a suppressed passion
That only a Mother could bear.

How tightly does each hair cling to another
Despite trailing years of sporadic growth?

All that has fallen together from birth
Has but dual fully died at the moment
Of its inception.

Death, not a moment alone
But a passage of time whereby destiny is determined
With the teeth of a material comb guided-
By the hand of Man.

Those hidden beneath layers
Remain soft and wealthy
With the utter security of darkness by another name.

O' how they tickle the nape with divine caress!
How they propogate and consume guilt-free!

But let us not concern ourselves with the charm of weaker beings.
It is time to speak of an end to old strands
When the dying fill the world with such stench,
When the hairs tangle and split reaching
Into lows of botched ecstacy-
When the bitter knots have freed themselves in acts of suicide,

It is given;
This in which was born next to that
Shall forever remain.

Where There is no War, There is Only Sleep

I find myself walking through wet streets
Moving slightly here and there
Whilst glancing longingly at the full grey sky.
It is a soft pillowing breast of sky
Weeping out "The sun is gone!",
In great mourning.
I may choose to thank one of many Gods
For this perfectly solemn day as it
Plays effortlessly my inner concerto.

You see, I am numb in tattered boots,
Laces dragging niggardly through
Wrinkles on the ground.
I am numb in tussled worry
Caressing my frame from the space
Between my eyes to the twirling
Innards of intestines large and small.
I am numb sucking dopplebock
Through the soft mouth of an amber bottle
Pedagogically speaking to the Mother inside.

O' great worry, I feel it on my brain.
Like an old girl playing hide and seek
With children, I will avoid the cupboard
That echoes their graceful breathing.
Can you believe it sky?
I am numb and your sun is gone.

To focus on my sentiments I must
First fold the paper crepe-like
And start so very small.
For a poet, the horizon may seem
Overwhelming as it lives and breathes
On a monotonous plane.
Then there is sunset and colors
Go suffocating the Goliath that
Lives in all things conquerable.
I am most hesitant that I should
Write these words, yet I know
The following to be unfeigned;

Where there is no war,
There is only sleep.

The indolence of my years
Binds me in sheer torpor.
I am numb in virginity
Holding precedence over
A panting soul.
In the midst of this pain, so shallow.
And pleasure, so hollow,
I find the most petrified middle-road.
I liken myself to the listless few
Who walk away freely from murder.
Do they cry out to God or sit
Quietly in the many lurid
Rooms of Purgatory?

In the distance I see legs of horses
Plucking puddles on the ground.
I think of the burnished strings of
Violins, where there is no sound.
I wait here with nagging patience
As I remember the darling liquid
In my body warming bones and,
Like a curse, working its way out.
Tears slide on my neck and then die
And the space between my eyes
And their watery graves is also numb.

A doughty knight rides his horse
Underneath the same full grey sky
And laments "The sun is gone!"
He sees a young woman dying
And weeping of a numbness
Spreading like the plague.
He pierces his sword deep into her
Heart, and this she feels like the sun's
Return to the morning sky.

Ouroboros, Crown of Cronos

Here, a chancy thought
Of rolling sweet 'bacco on the palm
Before a window anointed with the beasts of today.
And respectfully, I shall not smoke this brute stick.
Tis' but a mere trifecta of the hands,
The direct manifestation of my soul.
And to you, most indelible reader, my pleasure.
Slow death will not impress,
That there remains the deepest space in my mind
Until I am whitewashed with lone reason.
And why reach out to answer its cardinal vexes?
Let it ring and taunt with rouge wings.
Such is not a youthful guise
That I should call for arms, or carry on the merry wings.
It is my mind that coils itself like a snake,
Then again, then again.
I speak to its inertia; Adieu, be with God.
My etiquette for you, Cartesian crown of body
Enunciates thine tempestuous calling.

A young boy's flauto dolce stirs a song
That should implore you to your knees
And still, you suffer ages of iron and bronze.
Still, scanty madness goes exalting the sound.
Peace is shy of season about my intimate brain.
Let us not forget of divine fatality!
Whilst a gentle question rests among
The ashes of a flickered flame,
Why does the feathered fowl mock in vain?
Does it not know we are but one in the same?

I observe humanity as a glim row
Of peckish birds lined on a string
And unbeknownst to them, their smiles
Are the masks of frowns underneath.
Tremulous beings, they undulate in flocks
And will my improvement with backless reason.
For there exists no finite impotence
Save the seeds of Gaea, immovable Titans
That were cursed to the earth with indulgence.
In fountains of gold they cupped their futile
Hands and insatiety bore witness.

And so, I will my eyes to be engraved
At the top of my skull so as to stare
Into the depths of a distant Father.
As now, I endure life spine to the sheet
Nearest the breast of a reticent Mother.
Who, but a female that filled me with
Intoxicating drink and quenched my soul
And mused the attainments of many men,
Filling their chalices with saccharine certainty.
She, the darkly saint with a heart pumping sweet wine.
Yet Father, bearer of good thought,
Logic, and truth, who betrothed me with
A substantive carcass in the head,
Remains the infallible protector of all that is written.
In passing sapience, I look to thee.

There must be a way to know
The mind without losing it.
The earth quakes exquisitely in hamlets
Of the world and opens its abyss-like
Mouth to breathe new lust.
Its core longs for the familiar caress
Of the sun that muses its craters with
A transparent skein.
This lovemaking ebbs through the veins of time.
It is homage to the wind that gives birth
To serpentine waves, homage to the butterfly
That catalyzes the experimental feet of a child,
Homage to the nocturnal sounds of my
Somberly sleeping soul-

In these moments, I am shrouded by
A cloak of madness, however inglorious,
Imperviously deep in thoughts, monads, vestiges
Of mercy, apocryphalic wondering,
Believing in reality dictated by preeminent
Dreaming, and of chancing upon water
From a foot bridge and knowing why it
Reflects the sky, why in Father there
Is Mother, and why the act of discourse
Is but another patch on the charlatan's disguise.

Humans are made of varying shades of
Water, the most pellucid reflect more candor
Of the world, akin to those ancient lovers
Who birthed poetic thought against
The vast indifference of each waning day,
Each benumbed star!
I see those peckish birds on the line,
Do you not see?
I am but one in the same.
I hear their calls and virile singing.
Yet they do not call my name.

I suffer,
As I have not known God.

And I will die,
As I come to know
That which is thee.

What is this Physical World? I Know Only of the Sâcré Vent Blowing Through It.

I hear that the sâcré vent blows
Superior, with sibylline reason.
Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, a love affair
Of the two points seethes so
Rifely, the people can feel it.

From one phantom soul to its distant other:
"I am an expanse of sapped land. There exists
Merely imminent disaster that could bring
Us together. If only, if only, reveal yourself
To me and I will learn to touch you from
A distance."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the earth flattens.

"I see you. Of all the people that have
Tramped my streets prospering off
The throbbing currency of mine ardor,
Of all the nimbus that I have worn on
My head like a crown, of all the exquisite
Cairn erected in my honor, I have never
Known a face so deific and true.

Govern me by your seasons.
Let us grow decrepit and crumble
At once. Let our people die and our
Memories perish so that we may
End our lives in dust face down on
A crusty earth that crackles with
The madness of our thoughts."

Somewhere between Siberia
And Ménerbes, the flat earth
Enables the wind to take route South,
The sâcré vent is born.