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.

The Folly of Mesmer

What was the purpose of our time in Cythera;
But to honor the Goddess of beauty and love.
What was the purpose of our time after Cythera;
But to honor her temple, a euphonious sanctum
Cast at the accord of our hands.

Bear with me.

It was not solitarily you that I found
Under Aphrodite's young shadow.
There were suitors strapped to the lambent horizon
Offering Lydian silver and rubels of blue jade-
Glittering sublimely august in its baronial pageantry.
Yet their words held bandy, I harbored disdain,
And all the while, a trembling light shined
Through holes in their souls.
None can survive as you've taken from me!
And I ask of you, to the people passing
Mild-mannered in the streets,

Give me deliverance.

Our thoughts are protected by the potency
Of laurel leaves, so thus.
I spend my youth, a vagabond, wasting no
Folly on you, so thus it be-
One shall not drink from the chalice of
Holy water to be made whole,
One must come forth with verity and troth
On their hands demanding to quench upon
A fountain of blood!
Likely fluid of appetence!
Prurient descendance of life!

Like a Bacchic rite I am entitled
To endure this crucible,
To desire to rest my head upon your lap
And whimper there for all of time.
Infernous man,
Grant me this passage of Gloria.
Pray you, eventual of the hour,
To hither save the passing frost,
Save the dumbing bodies, and
Save us from the servitude of
Modern days.

To yesterday, we shall pray for
Redemption of our divided ways.
Today, I laugh at the folly of
Internal Mesmer.
Instantly, an epiphany begs
For my open ear.
Have you seen the face of
Mortal understanding?
It is angelic in its ageless confession.

O' Folly of Mesmer,
You have led me astray.
It is not man who will give me deliverance.
It is only I.

A Letter to My Utterly Amused

Amused one,

I look for you through windows
In faraway paths assaulted by the wind.
I spot, a tall figure pacing toward me
With familiar hesitance, like
Sacred breath shared in closets
During wartime.
Don't you know I've felt with you
Like children hiding from some fear?
Just yesterday we were reaching out
Of windows as being, for us, could
Never be contained by walls,
And tomorrow, may never hither to.
But listen, in this maniacal embrace
I am weeping with desire.

What is to become of our cherished
Existence that has behaved like
Water on glass?
Tis' but a romance everlasting?
I begin to feel as if it is a romance
Of its own right,
As if we have written a novel
With our hands loyally anchored.
I lay still and time possesses
My surroundings in ribald cups
Of coffee,and in little molds of my
Feet resting in piles of boots, and
In the tresses of my hair reaching
To my hips like a distant hint
From your hands...
The clouds are filling with
Frigid wishes.
Soon, another winter will
Bury our prayers and I shall
Lay here, still, possessed.

I think of you in a carmine coat,
Undressing.
I think of you out of a carmine coat,
Of all that remains.
You, who roams with a joy only
The modern world could encumber-
You, who comes and comes again
With tireless entrance- You,
Who finds a foreign father in my skin.
O' Fickle brother, literary lover, I have
A soft, dark place for you to rest in.
You, you, amused.

Let the prudence of condemned
Lips unfold without delay.
Let the ideas of solitary nights
Become something finite and forgiven!

Amused one,

If you will recall;

I know you then,
I know you now,
I will know you all my life.

Man's Heart Hath Thorns

This flinching man
Hath thorns deep in the heart.
His defense from the many
Coquettish daphne driving them in,
Is that of a neighbor's dog
Playing Dead across the yard.
Thorns thus embedded are likely
Talons arresting life into death.

Flinching man,
Macrocosmos of man,
You escaped to the south
Seeking refuge in the run.
Indoors and in piles of wires
And cords, in work, out of work.
Last I heard you were swimming in a pool;
I am in a Charybdis uncleansed.
I am stuck with reason.
What seperates men from animals-
What treasure?
What nightly terror?

Awaking from a dream that,
Like a mother, knows just what to do,
And like a child, disobeys utterly, sweetly.
I awake with chains.
The duty of interpreting your presence
Is fit for a martyr.
No, a prophet.
Have you not created a religion?
Have you not thirsted for a river
So wide of my blood?
I loved you like a tyrant to his throne.
I know why I can not love you now.

What wound cuts deeper than
A mother's betrayal?
I will give you a clue,
Amongst the perils
Of an antecedent life,

You were my son.

The Throbbing of Propagation

Women love like hunters.
In men, they see the truly
Beknownst beauty of prey.

Drooling in tall grasses,
They become keenly witted
With soft paws poised to the breast.
The meat before them is a feast
They have waited for all their lives.
To viscerate upon the brink for some,
I tell you, will reckon slumber for
Bellies full with veritable answers
Like a tranquilizer to the wound.

Watch, as the hunter cuts off her
Arms and lays on her side
While few wonder what one
Feast has to do with their minds.
Like-minds, they molder!
Remember, Antigone wanted to die.

Must we perpetually invade amniotic
Spaces to make it with our prey?
If, in the ephemera of a moment,
Our bellies and minds come to a
Truce of contentment...

Then I shall wonder, what
Of my heart.

My Soul, Beyond

It was not the length of time
In which you left,
You could have been gone a year
Had I not sought after you.
It is time in its aching hours
That deemed me alone.

In folds of blankets I saw your face.
In the deepest of night I feared
The infiniteness of the world.
Cats shuffled across the
Wooden hallways and cried
To the corners of the walls.
I blamed you for this fear.
Through the uninterrupted mind,
In hours of silence and hermetic thought,
There lies a clarity, much like
The center of a still pond reflecting
The light of the sun perfectly,
As gaily as ideas becoming truths.
I had begun to resent the absence
Of your ears to whisper secrets into...

Now that you are here,
Your welcome will be this:

I am beyond you.

My soul has traced the outlines
Of the first human with its hands.
It bore each new species from
My marrow and bone.
Knowing fully well that each is I,
I have quested to find the one
Who remembers me without skin.
Without this face and without this body,
I am a layer of the atmosphere
Joyously reaching down to hold you.
O' when you feel the reigns of
The illuminate OM tightening,
I will come to you once more and whisper:

I am amongst you.

A Moment is Yours

By lamplight, I lay at the farthest end of the bed to read
And I feel you staring up my legs
Tracing scars and silently shadow puppeting
Ankle to cheek, as if your fingers were monsters.

Your hands, brittle and sweet
Sneaking fruit from the trees
Embracing slowness, slow lover
Learning to admire childish
Shadows on a canvas
Of woman in between-

Is that your love?
If one beckons gently for their
inner desires, why does another
remain at the end of said bed?
Monsters, that's just it.

They are as frightening
Up my soft legs as if
Before me now.

Their garish faces tickle and taunt
The mind, convinced of a joyous
Reeling and further contained
As a sacred ritual underground, inside.
The monsters are not mine,
They are not real,
So, the monsters are all mine;
As I would imagine, and to let
Them desire from a distance
Is passion at its least solicitation
Yet most intrinsic spring and
Boundless you.

Spare you not a minute of beauty
To reflection.
Have it deep within your soul
Now,
For the hell of it.

For I- could not look
God in the eyes to show
My gratitude for life
Whilest living it.