A superfluous redux
Made better through silicone facade
Faux gestures of nice
Make the heart tingle
And artificial antiquated articles of arduous clothing are shed
In the heat of the moment
Her fluorescent lipstick smeared on his five o'clock shadows
The inherent noxious odors of passion
Churning
The ever consuming nausea of his sanctity
Her laborious lovelorn tranquility suffocated by
His rancid fucking
And triple-sec after taste
Clap! Clap!
But no applause
The occlusion of celluloid shatters the strata
Of acceptable auditory perceptions
Color Scheme
The twenty-four inch casket, precarious,
promised to topple into the unnatural hole;
platitudes fell, meaningless, like the rain
I never knew pink and indigo clashed
until I saw rosebuds and purple storm clouds
gathered, solemn, over your vault
or the color of dead blood
settled in your ears.
Hermlit
she spoke of Hermlit that was homeless in
lees of the break
&
cove
explaining poetry was not a mouth
but a body
entering
another.
Conscientia Sana
The religionists are a trio a quartet an orchestra,
The religionists are always looking at each another,
The religionists are a furiante, what with sending devils to their
dooms all day,
Are they not deliberate to live on streets wide to allow the passing
of two hearses,
Are they not the absolute Sun speaking, articulate and incessant
the phrases?
The religionists are printed white on white, text and paper agree,
every circular possibility stumbles into truth,
No divertissement, no sudden change in that decline,
They are insouciant against their missing what they have not owned,
they alone can master this skill,
And whether sacred or secular, they have made an Earth which is
never the right temperature, too hot too cold,
Though, sacred or secular, they are not rapid to remind.
The religionists have all the drawbacks of bricks that pack,
They remain pent, they are a tense constituency at the best of
times,
Although, of all, they are best placed to ignore the conundrum of
being nothing in a big place,
And regularly: Look, we gave you your happiness, where did you
leave it?
Look, and see only their wagons in their circle,
Are they not aware the quickest way from A to B is a missile
or a shell,
Are they not well-placed for wounded princesses leaking their
life-force to the ground?
They are the chirruping of crickets, terrible giants undergrowthed,
Even the romantic star-pricked night is defaced by their mutter,
Just when the individual wants oceanic, abandon,
They do their charity to gods destitute and are discarded by
children thankless and viprous,
They give out gristle pies from the sides of vans,
-Two please, requests the mildewed mendicant, and surely thou
shalt double thy reward in heaven,
Quid pro quo, what a world of quid pro quo,
The religionists should be protected against such dishonest folk.
Do they not go whitelipped on the meaning of Apollo raping Daphne
and the subject changed shortly thereafter,
As for the Levite's wife and the lads from Ashkelon, grand
voluptuous silence,
They have me saved many times, the religionists are lovers of me,
Although, although,
Whether sacred or secular, I believe that if I should have to murder
a religionist, I would go to the funeral as the best mourner, the
quintessential best,
It's a complicated billet-doux.
Do they not say life is great, but the absence of it will be better,
Do they not have a secret, which soon means seeing the world with
only one eye?
The religionists have altars on gimbals to ride out the secessions, on
them lain the red rose, stem severed,
They hurry from its dying,
They have made a forced marriage of Aquinas and Descartes, that
bag has a squabble of dents,
They scold whenever anyone refers to outlanders as shaggy apes
who barely warrant the name of human,
They sit all the way through that Dane with the problem of Being
and drink enthusiastically in the interval,
Never a nasci miserum in public for these,
Whether secular or sacred, they have gathered the people into a
convenient laity, and now they are on the evangel, they come,
they come,
Although the monarchs did not arrive until afterwards,
They have made much that requires its rule.
They swim in this water like wriggling elvers made - certainly, the
malcontents do not,
They find the meshes of the net,
The malcontents and their seas with extra complement of white
horses.
The religionists are of the view that their reflection is the same as
them,
And, when their time comes,
As the single petal dropping to a lake, it's their soul who is bound
to collect them,
The synchronization that good,
They are spare with their questions - the other answers, they were
trodden to the mud a distance back,
And only a small percent of them does the valiant,
Since all things are of Deus, they see no difficulty in the delegation.
Senses refired by remembrance, Agnus Dei, quis tollis peccata
mundi,
The sacrifice chilly on its weekly crucifix,
The crippled content on their path,
But I must operate watchfully,
That Deus should exist in my head as well as yours, too much.
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