::02:02:09::

::: Winter Fugue :::

Mossy, my prophetic bones, as a friend
“spin[s his] wheels in golden mud”, and forever roar
The rivers beneath the firmament of tragedies.
I study a new book this day –
Day of commerce, day so strange, second to last of ’08 –
But my prophetic, mossy bones foresee
Holographic repartee between the tired sexes
Cataplexy on TLC –
“I woke up in the morgue”
The strange news ne’er ends its slow lurch
Into my abused brain. Where will tonight or tomorrow lead?
With my woman eschewing any need of me,
Though a lover such I must be –
Ever-flowering, pressed in her palm,
A sun in her galaxy,
The way across Morder, Styx, and this waste land
Peopled with dull avarice.

There are women thus, and much of this –
Hieroglyphic images pasted on the waking wall of dreams;
What adventures particulate our apathy so?
How these vigors turned to ashen snow?
What vexing summers to reveal us then?

Must fakery hold sway, when love holds us at bay,
In the threefold treasure of lusts
This world has syndicated for us?
Now our own armies, in the constant war of covets
Scarring our mothers with what must
Terribly be.

In Trappist fever, fervour oblated, through
The filigreed forests where leaves mask what truly bleeds –
Earth, her ripped open wounds
Cry to you in your sleep,
Nights made bogus, life canceled out,
The pointing finger burns like the people it spurned,
Not a tear of laughter left out.

Intremendously the urge, the wallflower floats towards
Sweet revenge,
Or did Poseidon forgive, at last, his sons and fathers?
Matador, matador
Would you tarry with the bull
In the blue tide of bluffs?
Or is there no end to this jealous conflict?
May Day, May Day,
Sweet sweet
Beltane!
Return, O return us to where
No dragon eats the sun.
Where no son is lost, and the very sky
Sings Oratorios of Joy!

O rigors of fate,
Let down your long hair
For there is a here in a there
And silver fate in great feats.
Sip from poison streams, glad,
And find them pure again.

I feel like you fell away
Into the December desert gray
Not so much a sure thing
As a Super Bowl of speculation.

Feel like you fell away –
A thousand tons of earthenware
Feel like the planet gave way,
Into the arc of a drifter’s glare.

Written by: ~ The Phoenician