Ornamental graves set like feasts
for unfaithful lovers,
the broke marrow of virtuous phantasms,
now swaddled rapture
chanted as basilisk verses.
Scarred Alice wraps it around
torn limbs--
festering gauze--the cynical made anew.
"Creation moves," the gluttonous moper speaks again,
"to erase itself."
Alice's children blasts
the afterlife caboose
to the front of the freight
--saeculum saeculorum--
"Wake again and again
without ghosts and wrath,
dear children." The wind whispers their souls
back to her--"the molding of men
and women attend to sponge the graves dry."
They will raise themselves
--chanting the basilisk verses,
mother Alice
departs her children twice
to the corridors of rose fields
in her naked cloud.
"Come back, dear mother...."
"Come back, dear mother..."
they chant,
"Your salted epitaph
still lingers in our throats."
Not fit there
or here.
Nowhere, Miss, nowhere--
Sin is the party
that doesn't die
and neither does the health
of lyrical sand.
--Floaters like discontent
Alice,
recreate the world,
--our world with
pastels and finger-paints
doodles on Arlington headstones
--messages for our ear bones
--disasters on eleven
turning stones roll over--tortoises play dead
but whisper,
"Clergy cerebral
won't wisp away
beds of jewels.
I pity people who think
themselves powerful.
"Frost-bit devices dilate
like the hands of a watch
tearing time apart with
rusty blades.
"Counting fingers--useless freedom
--bothersome slavery."
Alice knows what the basilisk knows,
we would sacrifice
the only righteous heart in *****
& Gomorrah
to save
&n
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Ornamental graves set like feasts
for unfaithful lovers,
the broke marrow of virtuous phantasms,
now swaddled rapture
chanted as basilisk verses.
Scarred Alice wraps it around
torn limbs--
festering gauze--the cynical made anew.
"Creation moves," the gluttonous moper speaks again,
"to erase itself."
Alice's children blasts
the afterlife caboose
to the front of the freight
--saeculum saeculorum--
"Wake again and again
without ghosts and wrath,
dear children." The wind whispers their souls
back to her--"the molding of men
and women attend to sponge the graves dry."
They will raise themselves
--chanting the basilisk verses,
mother Alice
departs her children twice
to the corridors of rose fields
in her naked cloud.
"Come back, dear mother...."
"Come back, dear mother..."
they chant,
"Your salted epitaph
still lingers in our throats."
Not fit there
or here.
Nowhere, Miss, nowhere--
Sin is the party
that doesn't die
and neither does the health
of lyrical sand.
--Floaters like discontent
Alice,
recreate the world,
--our world with
pastels and finger-paints
doodles on Arlington headstones
--messages for our ear bones
--disasters on eleven
turning stones roll over--tortoises play dead
but whisper,
"Clergy cerebral
won't wisp away
beds of jewels.
I pity people who think
themselves powerful.
"Frost-bit devices dilate
like the hands of a watch
tearing time apart with
rusty blades.
"Counting fingers--useless freedom
--bothersome slavery."
Alice knows what the basilisk knows,
we would sacrifice
the only righteous heart in *****
& Gomorrah
to save
&n
Request permission to use this poem