The Fool

Golden rings float away from his stoup, 
Consummating the boredom of Metis; 
Prismatic discs recite promontories of bone 
Predating the Sun; - effacing the last reality of God. 

Eyes roll back, in a pool without tears, 
Cherishing the Sun; - The patience of Eurydice, 
An anabranch of venom, transpires Dawn
To another well of piping-hot tears. 

Juggler's, turlygods of the highest order, 
Jump on Jill's shoulders as a herd of orbs, 
Tickling her thigh, prickling her stomach, 
Leaving her cold besides buzzing flies; - 

Everywhere you look is Sunrise, 
The flock of crows are the freckles of Venus, 
The meadow has no end, skyscrapers are carousels; 
At Midnight, spires enslave themselves as stars.

(There is no God to find)- The profundity of amusement! 
Adulthood, not yet deserved; ripples too often rehearsed, 
Diamond waterfalls carrying the pyres of pharaohs, 
The history of widows cherished until death! 

Whatever the wave meant! - A green room, empty, 
Except for a chair, is the only recognizable where 
Indicating the odd fact that you were human once -
You knew what it meant to be alive! 

The odd charm of a dying race, 
Buntings grazing the divinity of animals, 
Exchanges and intervals, mother's returning shadows
Spread unto infinity from his wooden pipe…

—Four holes line the cress— The Fool
Dances and skips on Echo's children
Trapped in cobble jars of ancient solitude 
Covering the air's motion in passing sound.

Alastor, an illumination, a flower's form, 
Cries in the disastrous beauty of every budding storm, 
The inward eye melting under coloured voices, the shining stave 
Suckling the fruits of our throat — and we laugh! …

Children follow oblivion with no morality 
Tranced to the harmony of our thoughts, 
Bloated with mist, the blind man's clarity, 
With hollow eyes, The Fool starves all courts! ...

A lyre of tendons and veins withholds eternity; 
He grasps golden eggs, mankind's posterity, 
Reposing in maternal natures of our destiny, 
The melodies so blindly followed, as, or, for infinity.

I I

Golden rings float away from his stoop, 
Consummating the boredom of Metis; 
Prismatic discs recite promontories of bone 
Predating the Sun; - effacing the last reality of God. 

I write with typicality, creativity has been sucked out 
Of whatever it is is trying to grow — great - another day of this, 
So used to this— when will it end— when will I begin? 
I'm sure you know, Fool, the last of your kind! 

I I I

Relapsing into Heaven, 
Tails are stuck to an Ass 
Due to loneliness - perhaps? ...