Inbetween the curve of an equator
Philosophers open up a brothel,
The wind is gagged and declared a machine,
Insects clogging space are forever mute
And prehistoric sycophants dry up
Then flood the ashtray with ripples of glass;
The compass is nothing but betrayal,
It’s roots are chiselled just like the others —
No bowman mined for gold without a myth,
That is, until he found himself shining —
Even then there is no point to make sharp!
And we rehearse, and rehearse, until death…
Our spine rests like a sunbeam on green sand.
And the joke resumes … how did you ever
Consider such a thing to be real?
My fall was more like instantaneous
Invasions recaptured in the place where
We create fate — but how did I get there?…
Then again, royalty were only made
To be mocked and overthrown; — continents
Have yet to be pulverized by silence,
Home is comfort, so it doesn’t matter
Where I sit, or how I bleed — canyons
Only give as they fall as they erect...
Inbetween the curve of an equator
A baby’s thumb rests tapping on a womb,
An echo spews out lava for cameras,
The cherub coughs up ink for his own life
Which will be forgotten by the morning,
The tunnel suffocated by Sunlight.