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As the odyssey in the skiff continued a more sentient being begun to appear,
At times feeling as a eunuch who was unable to change anything,
In zenith of toxicity as miasma on a cold misty morning.
What an epic feeling is to hold an axe of revelation,
In the hands of a matador - a labyrinth of madness,
Throwing at the bull of life a cape of opulent burden full of grotesque
Put me in the stealth mode to permanently avoid stupidity!
(Demanding it loudly with no shame)
Allow me an era of reverie - dark as midnight with no saboteurs
And I will feel, bloody brilliant. No publicity!
Wholesome and hale in the dominion of eye-potent fascination
Rising from the chthonian depth into civility
From the places where wuthering hurricanes cussed through
The golden locks of an exonerated anomaly
Forming in such a way a cantankerous personality craving a revenge,
Wanting to contest any bout with a bull or pallor
Decorum did not matter even if the Magi were contested on Epiphany.
Bring it on! Bring ‘em all! Indeed.
With no discrimination the true political correctness flourished,
But the soul could not find the auto-erotic mode of emotional completeness
Until that day when all the eddies stopped, and
The wrist on a chair, in monochrome, pointed the direction.
With the greatest difficulty to be just, and I wouldn’t do justice to it to say, I swear
The snapshot in time captured the universe of perfection,
Mim, prim, Osiris and Isis in the archipelago of Faros for eternity to bear.
In this dark tunnel the only ophthalmic stimulant to move forward
Is the emotional candelabrum carried on the inside like an Olympic torch.
Oh dear! This darkness looks so avant-garde like a pair of crazy coloured socks,
And the fancy thing about it is an infinite resignation
That hovers as an all ‘dernier cri’ of the highest order in the realm of lox.
Breathe it! Feed the need of this transvestised fallen world of internalised dilemma.
Yes, imitation! Yes, agitation. Yes, abdication.
He was fin de siecle born poet who opened my mind to see the poetic Gubernya,
And the contralto priestess immersed in the white magic of the written word opened everything else.
Am I going to supplant Chopin’s Nocturne Op 9 No. 2 with the blue eyes
Which release the two liquid glaciers in a free-fall of amorous ‘potentia’?
Having no desire in becoming a well-known cubist
I wish to note that Tabula Rasa of my remorse tops the list!
I want to assemble the force, summon the Armada of the night to unfold the time.
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