Rajah's Prelude

I am the last of my kind,

The first of a new species.

Somewhere along the way,

Past hardened fruits ladened

With the exterior of modern hysteria

And memories capsized by the Sun,

I neglected myself to a virtue

Set before the remnants of flesh.

This stiff bulb in my throat

Shines through fingerprints

-It must have been the ferryman-

That I can only see as avenues

Lined with electric robes melting timelessly under my feet;

Everything is too old to care,

Too young to try the beauty of death —

It has all been said before.

There’s always a beggar to tie chandeliers

Under platforms chipped with disco lights,

Always something to be sniggered

Or petted as canals diverge into one.

Hopelessly, I would rebuild the dam’s wood

By sharpening nothing but my fingertips —

I set alight, with perfected honesty,

The very person I would come to be.

These decisions are never concealed

Infact, — Suns happily drain Lemon trees,

The Gypsy only knows himself when he is lost,

The Genii is only known when he is knocked dumb,

Founded upon a carousel of grain and smoke —

Vividly, totally alone, I would sit in classrooms

And create the tragedy of my own delight.

The universe sits open at my desk —

Clowns slowly rip nails from tree stumps

As I convince the viewers watching me

Through the purple horseshoe lodged in my wrist,

Assuring me the script need not be said,

That history will forgive my idleness,

That they will understand my loneliness.

What has lead me to see all this way?

Why is there always one confused by love,

Dragging down his own reaching impression

Which dictates through the medium of expression

The reason why he discovers himself asking;

The infinite layers are all the same

But what composes indifference in the mind which beholds this?

To me, this has only ever been the universe itself

But to you, I haven’t left my desk.

The root of ineptness is predicting the climax,

I must forge a figure from my own despair

Whom will be entirely reliant on beauty,

The Grand Orphan inverting himself blind

Only ever focuses on the atoms which compose his mind,

Never does he willfully address the reason

For his own autonomous regression disguised as progression.

Did I create my future after death

Or during the compressions of life?

We shy away from the pulse of will,

Avoiding being aware of perfection,

And for what? — To enslave the mystery?

For me, all common man speak a language only I understand,

Every soul desires to play the harmony from which it’s composed.