Everything pulls softly and silently apart
The clouds are titans: ruling over us from an ungovernable sky.
They move in wavering weaves of tissue-silk spider threads,
That are hintingley made visible in binds of sleight pumped mettle
That refracts the light in a billion of a trillion different ways.
Into these crumbling towers of cotton cream layered with night
They are built, shown to grow, to then dissolve and to dissipate
In huge achingly slow cycles of enormous fine arched spirals,
That show us we all our mortal, designed to be so: unchanged.
In the court that resonates within a gentle whispered refrain,
They are governed by the Goddesses with temptingly soft wet kisses
That come alive from such sweet and tender sudden rushed hisses
From the sacred lips of the wild writhing almost near clear snakes.
(And believe me in this there can really be no room for mistakes.)
In this vast and wild and fierce place that flows in bows detritus,
Oh how they bodily fight for their own space . The bold bolts light
The wild and fiery sky to kiss the earth with spears of desire,
To birth the raging green man of the wild, who slowly starts to stand;
His face cordwood strung out on chords and through green vined veins
He bellows out with spittle that nothing ever really stays the same!
Here he rises to the call: where the bold raggedy soul still stands;
Gathered by the wild wild winds! and here in their ferocious hands
He is justified; humbled yet near ruffled in a coarse threadbare coat,
Made from the fine fibrous wild and wiry hair of the natured goat.
He bodily calls out as he plays his lyre whose strings still sing true
The colour of the notes that then ring in his reign is a subtle hue
That rests between the green and the near pale blue of the sky.
And with the sheen that glistens with beads of rich sex sweat
That timeless ageless delicious cologne that nearly always satisfies
But like all things and so sadly for only a very short while in time
Leads us all to conclude that the world herein is temporary and feudal.
And all I really want to do is simply to take this one final spacial trip
Within this fleshy mix: in this so comfortable and so flexible ship
And go to a place that is not and cannot be really here at all.
Is it a crime spending my time Looking for doors that they say do not exist?
Or can I refine the lie by spending my time on bended knee resign?
For poetry is the blunt edge of a knife that cuts the busted cyst,
It is the invisible and near impenetrable huge yellow puss filled zit
That can only be reached and then finally distortedley discharged
Through that huge fucking door that I despise to walk.
So here I drink to the time-leases of the trees
And their servants the sacred black bees,
Here I drink to the sun, the golden apple of life
And its resonating shards: the magnetic spill: its wife
Here I drink to the shadows that swirl at twilight
And the reflections seen of the river near thrill
Here I drink to the utter madness of sanity
And the gorgeous glorious orgy’s of dissent
Here I drink to you! you beautiful sex queen
And the rumbled mutterings of Carl Jung so well hung
And In pants and gasps of a climax that just bloody hurts
I note the Curt curtain that slowly closes on the last day
So I bow and with a glistening eye and sharp wink
I finally say these two words:
© adh 2014
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