Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

xxv. [untitled]
A rupture & gestation, awake, how it glows,
lures, leads, smoke, steam, a flu, oh my,
one finger, two, ten, a dozen, rouse, seek,
hurry, it has come, a song? instruction?
gas? geometry growling? fragrance of sorrow?
Petals of fist. A rapid fiercing through the heart.
Call it spirit, a muck of sacred & mud.
Awake, be conjured, intent of genii within
molecule, rouse, the deep nears, myriad of
none, spell? impulse? dangle? I stare
down at it. What’s ridden through the heart
returns ever again. Living bells sing of the damage.
Two armies of tinder cross on the plain.
Golden words cried the king learned from
the preacher eaten of his lord. Fingers
trail through ruin, thicken with seed,
a shimmering mass, muck of fable & bone,
some line trying to win my way. A bleating.
A remain. An acceleration. A greater power stirred
in dust’s rhythm & melody. Nothing breeds
from mischief & yearn. A speck, a world,
a hard thrashing felt everywhere dreams
unease & cajole. Some near the music,
feed the green. Starlight & drums pounding
confess the night. I look down at it,
ruin? tinder? golden? Spilling yet still
afraid, fistfuls of protecting membranes,
crumbling, swing & blinding for nearer
still, best truths shed easily, husks,
happiness, new day cracks open still greater.
A queer remain called history. Diminishment
to certainty, the release of lasting into
hum, living bells now call it merriment.
The residual is comfort. A free sigh among
the monuments, heat now sated. Breathe.
Relax. I look down at it. Shit is beautiful.
***
67
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005