To My Love Part 6 TBC
The hypnotic sleep-walk will diagnose this flaccid imp in me
All the recantations will die there where selfishness butchers the prophetic shields
As If I were to go through the film of yesteryears...
The sandy beach anchored in the Port Phillip Bay was dressed in a bodysuit,
The secluded and frothy waves battered the rocks,
And the sunset on a pier in Noosa that evening never looked better!
The colours of gold, copper, purple and pink – the epitome of beauty,
The embodiment of the Sun. The second coming of Hathor.
These days I soliloquy often as if I am rehearsing for a conversation with someone.
It seems like a dialogue between Vladimir and Estragon with incantations
Which come from an inner fierce force of destruction and corrosion,
Carnal and flesh eating, - parasitic and unsustainable. Endemic!
The turbulence creates mental glittering, and
Then the moments of insanity come, so noble and balanced, my perfect pandemonium.
In this salon of orderly mortality I devour volatility of emotions
Like an opportunist who can demonstrate to a matron the origin of sincerity
Sometimes it seems to me that my life role is a part of a museum diorama,
Where my epicardium is examined and sampled
Or, on occasion, it resembles the role of an emulator of hallucination
Allegorised in the images of poetic wrath, all worried,
Standing on the platform of despotic witticism as the last romantic connoisseur
Hand to hand, relentless in the rhetoric that does not need an aegis of virtuality
Nor en passant on the distribution of love!
That bullet may blow the brain but it won’t deny the fact!
As a Roman raconteur who used a bon mot on a little stool to attract attention,
I often feel the same but would climb a stool for a different reason,
Though, even then, my mummery would rather miss the beat.
What a perverse poetic autobiography this is!
Is becoming a corpse a process of decadence, or lunacy incorporated?
My secret life flickered with the prohibition of conscience, exquisite and ripe
It created an identity of departure, finalised and declared,
An absurd affinity towards sensual and tolerant, bold and blunt
Almost as the doctrine of Gray towards the painting,
A pure invention of aggression as the shield of the ultimate protection
A primal animalism of wounded devotion,
A proclamation of celibacy from falsity in the name of Orpheus
I bow before all not bedizened but bare, untangled and restored,
My armour is my open palm, my demeanour masculine but calm.
Copyright © Hound of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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