The Glass Terrapin and Festivals of Imminence

The Glass Terrapin

As bewildered as the Godhead, 
Yawns form a self-setting Sun
Climaxing instinctual dread 
Birthing numbered thought from none, 
The accepted and presuming
The now, unexpressed exhuming; 
Beige wine rolls off the mosquito's tongue, 
Galloping cross-examinations 
Pulse through the shacks walls, we don't belong, 
Wood wells beneath us, blood coats the swans 
As they dip their necks in the puddle's flood, 
Maurice is the new Christ, it's understood. 

I despise my own affection, 
The two Seas are Moby's palates 
And they trail like oil from the Sun, 
Eastern Adam's balls are hot spuds
For loneliness is enslaved 
To appearance to be saved; 
We are the history of butterflies 
Sadistically awaiting a reprise, 
Clearly gold-pot imperialism 
Is no more than a neologism, 
The heart's everlasting furnace thinned 
Reaching, smudged by a pause in the wind. 


A young girl is covered in dirt and blood; 
She holds you as you weep. 
You did what the rest do before raping her - 
A sequin is left pinned in the throat of little-red-riding-hood; 
She holds you as you weep. 
You do what the rest did before raping her - 

Festivals of Imminence 

Teal hyde brawns my youth's prime, 
The prelude of the chime, 
Flicks rose daggering coats 
Loosening our cadaver; 
The whirlpool arches further
Inward, capturing the moats, 
The purple frosted coconut
Has the eternal appearance 
Of being high-tech; -
Golden hair, unforgettably freelance, 
Enveloped by veiny cuffs of a mother, 
No one's fault but air, 
I return to myself, prolonging nowhere, 
Biting death's fortune, a remorseless affair. 

Stumped enough to see straight, 
The raped warrior's fate
Too typical to earn 
Respect, I temptly discern 
The robotics of a new constraint - 
Free to think, hollowed to a gorge 
Of fibonacci seesaws rocking to taint 
The prestige which I desire to forge, 
The unwelcomed art springs into action, 
Taunting and taunting before I can rush like the hours 
Inside the black neck of swans guarding the pavillion, 
Stuffing me in the basic mechanisms of their wings, 
Hollowing my soul to butchered murmerings. 

Crumpled ferns keep me afloat 
The rocks cut with a smudge, 
Pinging wells from my throat, 
Will drown me in a touch; 
Revolt is the disciple forced 
To sleep in the cranney of a flashing lens, 
My childhood was cursed 
By retributions of return, 
Self-willing starvation which now sends 
A breeze to remind me to glance down 
At my scathed, withering flesh, each burn 
Scolded to a remark, snarking on how I would've grown 
Into humanity's devourer, 
The last true saviour, 
Less the trick be played hereafter. 

Left, away from bitter, 
Healed by rotting sugar, 
Rummaging through the whore, 
I became dawn's emperor; 
typically executed by a full stomach, 
Anal tidings, each note plucked, feeding to be malnourished, 
I treat myself to parades, floats and the divine, yum, ache 
Of feasts caressing the fertilized witness
Who layed bent on the desk, lays bent on the table
Which is all treble, bursting through pores, galloping to a fable 
Awaiting the shellshock of summary 
And the smell of twenty, the twenty-two hour nunnery 
Where hairs wince, untangling from an egg-eye of ivory. 

As jawless as the summer 
As lawless as the gunner 
Licking flesh for another, 
I tear the world asunder; 
If I was silent, the universe would be mine, 
The grain is buried until sound 
Disturbs the blind passing of time, 
A bee stems from the dry ground 
Only to be found, and deflowered
By the search of a long lost lover, 
The narcissism destined to be devoured, 
This is the secret of matter; 
I wrinkle in my only carnation 
And surpass the automatic heckles of redemption, 
Reconnecting violet to sunlight destabilising winter. 

The liquid rubber frames 
Pop like bubbles in the rain, 
Objects parting ways 
From cemented pain; 
The always lamented refrain catches fire
And reduces the galaxy to a small tire
Burning like the devil's asshole, an angel's pyre, just for a shadow 
Stalking freedom - all shared, she says, - like the moth's quilted libido
Crouching to the cross-eyes of bloody echoes inside some Mary's gallow; 
I give her my heart, clotted to a heel, dead men cop a feel 
As they pretend to be your ancestors, when love was real; 
They are the landslide itself, submerging in the exchange 
Of anticipatory deshevelments, destroying by holding the loyalty of change. 

I improvise insolence 
To find new numbers between, 
I entrail a new sense 
By re-creating births scene; 
It's true God is forever bored, 
Forever lonely and confused, 
But he also has to hoard 
The opposite, else how could he be amused? 
So, I am a star from ink, 
A splodge of shadow from His Darkness, 
Igniting the endless will to think, 
With this device, the demon inside jesus, 
Blood from water, snarking at all things serious, 
I create existence, which is to say
A new God, a mystery to mystery. 

The cowboy's sacrifice 
Is long and unheard, 
Nevertheless the dice 
Without sun white is endured; 
A heart on its hind legs 
Rummages for stinking gold, 
Wafts in a new phase and pegs 
The serne to blotches of mould, 
I scour under a wrinkled thumb, 
Belching to the cult of idealistic wind, 
Fingering as if I'm empty like the rest in mind 
The dream spell key of some dead mother's womb.