Nepsis of Coesus

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…)