So, Poor Souls

She, the landscape of man's physical hour
Wantonly drifts through time
In a miraculous corridor, as if
Pushing silken curtains aside.
And that miracle, falls unremittingly
Into an idyllic sea.

She sinks not to cease, but
To be preserved, for the continuity
Of life depends on God's attempts to recreate
This still life and still death
Purific, soft, and wild
Envy of another which desires
To skin her delicately, like
The freshly hunted, just to die
Inside her body like a Pharaoh's Tomb.

And he, the basest of all horizon
Is unfit for trying eyes.
As she begins to move, her
Equatic curves commence to crack
And creep thatches into Man's psyche
Sickened with presentiment
And a multiplus keen.
He, whom shall commit sins of carnality
Ill-fed with vast murmur and
Wretched blush at the cheek,
Will become engaged with a
Daemotic sophism of bloodless
Vessels in the palm;
The heart of touch, the emptiest empty,
The Lucifer rose.

He endeavors Paradise upon
The tops of a cliff and sees
The sky mimics the earth and
Is no less full of creatures undiscovered-
Daemons pull at his eyelids
And capture him in slumber.
The glorious She, sings in his dreams
Her voice, unreachable like salient air
Whispering from his ears a suicidal song
Song of lust and burning contention
Beyond all mortal stigma,
Beyond all human strength.

So, poor souls
Will live another day, a sacrilege
Kneeling for the wrong God,
While the peccant She
Laps water from the fountain.

Living Herds

When the air dries itself out on the line
And the olive trees turn pale in their mossed graves,
When the poignance of an Eastern Harem withers
With the rains of yesterday, or the memory of
Sweet wet drudging over pores, pure unlike
The cloudy sweat of living herds,
Children like jackals prowl in these packs
Through tin alleys moving Gaza
Because their elders can not.
And their bellies moan like flies caught indoors
Between vertigo and a distant illusion of Nirvana.

Glorious maker, the suffering puts you on high ground
And the hands, the hellish intention of hands
Shape shifts into a fragile house of cards.
This question is gospel-
Will you let your offspring fly like ghosts
Into an army of shadows underneath
A reoccurring sun?

At once, we believe that humans do not have teeth.
Together now, we will remain bitten.

Ill, Illusory

The Young Bloods sing their figmented blues
On the streets that lay like made beds
And their voices blow like a gale
Reaping the flowers of Space and new territory -beyond.
It opes hollow hearts and parts lips anew gossamer.

Look at these children,
Open wide and screaming throat smiles,
Millions of misfortune, bantam Americans
Dream in the day while their bodies
Mourn dead energy.

We are One, Look Closer, One is We

There is more to a tree
Than the dark grains of wood.
There is a dark age of rings
Hiding foliage in the womb.
And sand, little lustering opiates
Of the desert groan and howl
Building false monuments
Like angels without an altar.

Sour Wine Envies the Thick Wit of Blood

Another day becomes night in the Opium den.
There goes the sun- drunk
I've seen it rise and fall
From lethargy to life,
and back again.
Tis' but a black light buzzing my skin
into the most sodden pallor.
And on the tabaret, une bouteille de vin
Sinks into my muscles
How gently they sleep on the bone now, weaklings.

I have heard that under my breast
Lay hard roses in full bloom
And a tyrian haze at the cheek.
And when the vin soaks in,
Sardonic chasms teem my brain.
For I braid the voices of a dulcimer
Into the sky, a ministry made of sunbeams
Shaking the lustful harp like hands of savages
And stones, opal stones remove themselves from nature
to be the bridge for the crossing Gods in you.

In Mihiragula's Mana

Earth be still enough to hear thine heart
skip slick like a stone upon a spring.
Observe the frightful imbalance
of ones own personal fever.
In days of snowfall atop a high den,
one can not even hear its' cold flakes
knead into the ground- invisible yeast.
Take mercy from the constant buzz that holds
like a cloak calming the night, with velvet shoulders.
Until street lamps like halos ring...

Tis' a clarion bright and blown
revealing the secrets of Sages
sitting between the corridors.
What do they reveal through high minds?
Ave Maria!
Not of female form, but of a divine sphere
and the lamda of all that was,
and remains as is.
Moronic Madre,
Mary of Maroetic Lake, revive!
We will find time in your resurrection.
We've quenched our bones with blood yet
we are still going deaf, we are going blind.

There will soon come a time when
the mana of my verse
will derobe even the God Al mightiest
and trail like the ivory screams of elephants
entrancing the White Hun.

Portraiture of a Coast

I was triumphant in my wandering
as a tool outside the shed
I layed under the skeleton sun
and rusted into lead.
I bestowed you my hands
like some souvenir
we wrote the words
of things unheard
and like a surplus
of Texas hay
I felt you in my bones.

You were born under
a wounded moon
some low month like july
you stood tall
with scraped up knees
starry from the falls
and like your moon
you remain wounded
like a beneficent sailor lost
and searching for the call.

These days I see life
through a scope
all the faces, so close up
all the people, small.
I was feeling once
and I was fickle twice
and I saw freedom
in the eyes of my father,
a ghost.
He faded into sinless laughs
by lips of calabash
parting like parched stalks
on a lonesome farmer's coast.