Thursday, December 20, 2012

FAC ET SPERA



And the spear is like a shovel,
clair-obscur, the child
who stands upon the wooden bench
looking o'er the entire city,
deafening.

And the spear is like a flute,
clear and sure, the red
which blazes in the veins of the jaguar
circulating through the ignited jungle
evening.

And the nudity is like a transparency,
origin, the tool
which renders the music solemn
must look as a root removed
from the soil.

(__________)(__________)
(__________)(__________)
(__________)(__________)
(__________)(__________)

Quelling its incensed questions of flatness,
does it perceive a scarlet toffee ?
Is dawn sweetly entering vellum?
Does its atavistic heart dilate?
Its joyful ignorance may not sate you.

Cream questions the passing chorus.
The dun battle is a veiled race.
A feather shaped door into the hat
reveals a toffee settee of null traces,
this debt a prodigal trousse of skin.

Necessarily questioning the pouring
of rendered limes sussing its ardent
drapery of flames, the elmy foe rates
the mirrored faun, its jellied mask
evincing lame lacunae, nests and
clauses of demonic fins.

Wry boughs pour intrepid essays
among the rapid bottles' tiny, dreamy,
transparent trumpets' barking.
VERITAS on the moon's insipid rump,
the demure car holding oaken parents.

A pine ointment over poached prawns
pedestals the sentient heart of a roach
attending its most recent duel, where
grace's tonsils are still macaroons,
pendants of space under clinamen's oil.

I see the briskly common virus,
its sermon's costume perserveres.
The maintenance of audacious fools
projects an infernal dance inferring
our communal muse is a mustache
of surly suns.

THE ADVERSARY OF HABIT IS THE TROUBLE OF WORDS
HONEY THE MOST IMPORTANT SKIN