Ah! the gut of the coast’s strophe is retching open
And the wrenched, blinking jaw of Aurai yawns
Re-examined birds, revelations, sculptures and men
Flock in silence, revelling to the widening Dawns.
All their bills are patient and hollow,
Each quill drips, cultivating an Ocean’s sorrow.
The apex breath of a glowing mind
Spits-out flints of chewed, burnt wood
Gnawed by the children who find
Themselves naked in blood;
In the lost undergrowth in the roaming of dreams
Pours down the blood on our historical cheeks in fresh water streams.
The cradle of death, her fiery-glacial bones
Sprawl and rock us to familiar melodies
And his mantra’s of life kiss our feet on stones,
In the hungry, forever full, orchestra of enmities.
Where all is alight in sound, (no fingers wrinkled)
And all sight sings, all the moral visions drinkled!
But those clean-feet angels of pride
Of condemned slough,
Pass within eternities hour of a person’s bide
Until we, the poet, eat again…or to ourselves bow…or endow?!
Or are they, us -the thronging elect- forever dying
To our son’s, Prometheus, vying?
(Ah! the gut of the coast’s strophe is retching open
And the wrenched, blinking jaw of Aurai yawns, etc…)