whisperingquill

A magnum opus for insanities symphony # thirteen

I.

Molting.

Every night,
I shed my skin,

and lie
at the peeling,

caught in the lye
as the epedermis
reels from unraveling;

dripping my pith
as puddles of forgotten
what-if,

into a cyclone of
reanimated chaos~

orange tub
torso
sends
catatonic echoes-

falling limp,

like a
blastula
nephilim;

I cling to
flimsy
pipe reveries
as they branch into the sigh
of gypsy clouds....

as old grace,

fades as burnt mementos
swirling in a architects
prime intention,

we wear
oily ectoplasmic-chassis's
clipped on the suspenders
of the Light Bearers simper;

wondering when
the sorrel mottle
budding 'neath clavicles-

would be 
deemed
as Arcadian
pestilence.....

rippling
in the backstage brigade
as a sanctified
fractured dream,

bleeding into
the thump blink
of a inebriated creator.


II.

Ailing Succubus.

Every night,

I prop a pop up chimera
as a hope shiv
stabs doubt
into my mirage
of amor....

with blind
swift
malignant
yen,

I keep holding
my shrine
as a menhir
plebiscite;

insufflating stardust,

till I
feel her
cold
stringy
ebb,

on my
Visuddha.


III.


A Fat Blunt,
                 )
                   .
                .
                   .
                   ...
              . .
                 . .
                  Burns.

Every night,

I weave,
wounded whispers~

into origami loopholes
of justification~

favored as a sterling scapegoat
I deploy pointy fingers
into a looking glass
of prosecution-

shaking,

as a senile cynic
a pompous critic
who critiques
his
inky screams....

ricocheting
off of gravy orisons
in a phlebotomize
basilica;

shattered
thump beats
redirect shards
into the crucified teardrop
of a supernal maestro-

wishing,

I'd
never stitched
sandpaper roses
into chloroformed roods~

also, trying to
ponder,

if there's
one more
spare
blotched wraith
stretched from the gallows....

in the redacted line
between self-love and hate~

there is no room for me
as a gift.....

I only float
as a air-pocket embolism
in your
abyss of dreams;

so......I will save a sequel morsel
for tomorrow's requiem.

 

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WhisperingQuill.All Rights Reserved.
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Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),WhisperingQuill.

Comments1

  • kevin browne

    Woe!! like a 77 set Orchestra set. Brilliantly composed. Great work.



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