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.