It is the oaken village that falls, splintered through a dust of visage where I gallop, no more flint than air, to think of cabalist hope: a universal alteration in the germination of planets.
But, the mystagogic chairs smashed in seed wars, I'm conceived again by the imponderables of total conjunction--even my shadow with another's that left its organs (sex-ploding suns) some distance from the translations of matter into an image.
This way the poem becomes an open sluice for darkness. Only the most obscure body is the brightest unity.
I catch hold of a train inside an iris.
Time at the window of maternal cosmetic, the high-heeled foot garlanded by a silken phallus spectates the forest where the uterine furnishings sink into drawers at bay from that twilight flashing in a mirror of dressing and undressing.
The preternatural identities beat the clouds from their barks, a child's chance look at the raging smolder of roses. Nearing sleep, this same wind rustles the void of blood-stained horses (my first cabals) whose galaxy dissolves with a kiss the victorious rescue of the palpable shadow streaming stars, her face: this bed, the undulant phantom: her hips.
We ride wooden horses
Always a desert marries the boiling water.
No comments:
Post a Comment