Your reveries
your left eye houses a metropolis of stone
you possess the pink grandiloquence of a rich infant
you have been hovering over this spar of thunder for a decade now
your throats rood of ice stiffens , the tall bilious fractals , bud on your tongue
some thunder-plectrum might spasm in its blue root, and
plumes of alive stalactites have riveted a forest in your body
(everyone is so sly, and things are so easy here, where there are no towns)
but then you see a lone leaf, an alabaster limbed cadence,
stutter in descent
through a moon-hoop, drowsy,
and the face beneath your face,
starts feeling for lunar-masonry
(metal-ducts and industrial slag are disposed of in a ridiculous precise artery)
and falling into dark-muscled affinities
with ghosts that harness the body to a raw-bulbed past and a reprobate future
In the end only the idea of embodying beauty remains,
and the auctioning of bright blooded, private clowns,
to an unschooled coterie of modern wraiths,
is unmitigated by sussurant doom ,
for ones mind in spring is a dazzling blood squall,
ravishing the world’s guts and gutters in fathomless glitter.
