Ode to Beauty
O beauty, beauty the great boundaries of your cutting blaze is the throat that preach the holy way known to the souls lost in the armpit of a shriveled city where what remain of the overgrown growth hoping to gain a foothold is the resistance of the concrete to mother the motion of grass. Beauty you are my Venus of ashes, my cold sealing wax of new graves dug in the palm of my hand. Beauty you are the seawater breathing hundreds of tongues full of tears that rush upon the breach of my thighs. You are a mountain of heavenly lies ancient as finding yourself struggling encased in a plastic drop. You empty the sky. You are the sleepless skeleton that we pray by, lay by, and in vain wait by.
O beauty, beauty shall I kiss your hair that hides the summer birds, your cheeks flush with worm’s blood grounded in a gorge grinning its grain gorgeously by the geese’s cries. Shall I keep you safe in my breast pocket of tenderness taught to the young who keep their youth tight between the shoreline of their fingernails? My pockets are filled with gravity, yours with the rose’s thorn fix for making torn love’s fluency bleed with the blood of angels who worship at the chemist’s shoulders.
O beauty, beauty forever defying the whispering motion of who you shall call to task, you are my hands I take them from you, you are my legs mad with your strength, you are my eyes eating the quite, low mourning of an exquisite cry, you are my melancholy telegram issued by the governor of cold fishes, none is your equal for everything is caught in the tail wind of your pulverized breath. O beauty, O moon the same, O sun that drain away beauty’s face from the terrify cover of everything caught within your middle age grace where the rivers runs like deserted streets sweep by a wind lost in the corroder of landscape of the city.
O beauty, beauty when will you be washed away, when will you cub your waves, when will you taste the equilibrium of gunpowder used as your shade against the musical muscles of the brave? When will you remember the wreckage of eyeglasses and the millions of pigeons that people the accommodated sky? When will you free us from the machines delirious by your perfume, fragile by a blue perspective that sleeps in a circumcision?
O beauty, beauty you are the tambourine of my memory, you are the bare back black boy that builds industry nursing at the breast of the Mississippi ignorant of St. Louis. Few are your column of comrades, few who will weep at the gasoline of your feet, you are the first fire fruit eaten, and you are the nudity of a Sycamore leaf falling at the crack of dust dawning; the split opening in night hiding under cars. No one will avoid you. Many seeks to repeat your delight, yes many; the given boy and the gave to girl that plays at prostitution, even your enemies with the sleeplessness of their hurtful poison are sons and daughters of your bitter beauty born in the belly of a burned beast roasting its nude pillow beside the bride of breeze in branches.
O beauty, beauty, solitary in the public squares where classical pagan pigeon outwit man with their inscription writ in feather. O beauty you are the museum of mirrors where-in is seen the unforgettable statues of intimate tree trunks and your timeless blushing beauty that burse the brute who buried you in the muzzle of a gun. Awake O beauty with your genuine antiquity of tongues, awake my dark haired lover of the enormous weight of water. Awake you furiously abandoned science of ignorant. Awake you rusty secret held in the blood of poets that cry your suggestive wisdom, your voice is caught in the equilibrium that probes the motion of a child on the run.
O beauty, beauty we cry out to you as a wounded leaf to the wind, you are the murmuring landscape of our target, you who were murdered by the astonishment of nocturnal desires held in the knife hand of a fluid compliant against the Gods who have abandon all the little animals within your arms. You are the evident of your epidemic. You are the ecstatic insistency that hesitate and tremble your strangle suffering of the heart that harvest a profusion of miracles held in a pleasing face, the non-evasive face utterly beautiful as to ensnare the criminal from his extraordinary deeds done down by the disheveled docks doped by trash. O beauty, beauty stripped of the anger of forgotten things, beauty delicious as atmosphere and flamboyant as the free odor of the triumphant sexual desires, cavernous and corrosive that commands thee.
