Locrian Trills

Tirelessly tapping the ecliptic elixir of modernity the marionette hurls pebbles at minarets The rot of this wretched wine vivified his rapturous pith platting the tombs of his sodden salience The pangs of arousal cleave onto the inebriated mannequin his locked lips pipe the Piper’s mantras the rodent destines himself for delirious denigration He is no different than a bee that tarries too long in a lotus moments before dusk the last man siestas at the altars of nectar-laced honeycombs like Himalayan dew reposing in Tibetan singing bowls The grape of his wine like red rubies that incarnadine the spokes of a regal petal Flinging the wooly garbs of forgiveness he glaciates himself in this numinous tundra for his newfound treasure was nothing but fool’s gold His unsatiated cravings Locrian trills of a libidinous choir ruefully recede into the crepuscule