In between the curve of an equator

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.