Often the fiery harp and it\'s squinting royalties set close
To my brine fringed temenos, on the left to a paradise
That is left indifferent to all sunken eyes; all spirits gross
And rise through the ticking promenade, a pinkish gneiss,
Gargling and frothing to my mouth, a sea of impurities...
And in my sacred ground I drown in pathological auguries,
Where all concepts are revelations and each grain\'s a candle
For the light of an eye shut too long. Luna\'s unveiled sororities,
Fine strings of emerald and jade (it\'s modernity!) are the handle
For the polar evenings that freeze wine and swoon placid vines;
Though I have often wore a crown with honesty, a genuine king,
I quickly stitch pride to my throat and despise Apollo\'s delicacies. Pines
Litter under the dark Ocean\'s chin. I have sewn peace to a thing;
To the wrinkled nits who dance on dry scalps and suck the ore of miserable sense
Love for them, for all, is never out reach or a far
For hatred is a form of love, a strand of it\'s eternity, as in loves absence
It creates a thing; Like the Moon to the Sun, or a flower to a star
We are lead by the leash until we infuse the opposites,
I hold the secret to all the pain and all love upon my lips.
Though, with my cheap baton and rigid snake that sits
Above my long (gone) golden locks and sips
The apathy from my seething skull, I return to the weary sane,
Where I am most vigorous and childlike in the mind.
I play all rusted harps on the shores of all phosphorous grain
Tuning them to a breast, the heath, the eye, the night, the mind...
And as a young boy, fair and slender, parching and pale, on my old age I reminisce
And still, from a beloved other than memory, await for that kiss...