The polished eye surveys the
Peace of the volunteer
And like Demosthenes then reports this
To the sea,
With a mouth full of stones.
This brings on the flood wherein
Dreams are wiped away
Along with with the
Professions of night,
Occurrences of laughter,
And incidental blood left over
From the murder of the Buddha.
But please don’t mention that
You heard this from me.
It is said that
Messengers often die in their sleep.
Small acts of the soul transfigured
The evidence of justice, looking back at
A few well-chosen words.
The divine music heard from the
Back of the beast makes
A graceful language which can only be
Understood by these self-same
Messengers who shout.
The frozen lake of fire
Consumes those who otherwise
Deserve to live.
Like a worthless professor of historical wrath
Is the leg of a man telling a woman of
An essay of fingers
Advocating in the sweetest of tongues like
A raised poet of the sick describing
The scent of decaying paper.
Can you imagine these things?
We are an act of commission
In a time when there was a produce of
Hysterical justice. Amongst the trembling vials
of impromptu pride
a debate takes place
about the nature of grief.
In a loose handwriting of noble words
It was revealed that neither the
Corrupt nor the sane would appear, here,
Listeners poised to hear from
Their fathers, a head full of eyes and wishes,
The acts become like smoke
Drifting upward until they achieve
The speech of belief condemns
A far way county. A language of
Monsters, a box of frail stalks
A curse of Egypt:
You cannot have my love