Defunctive smoke
From the brain
Rankles the soul:
An eternity of ignorance.
There are no marrams for skin.
Marquetry of bones
Intricacy assumes
Hoodwinking eyes
That see only nudes.
Whining gin.
Phthisic mind
Transhumanizes darkness
Swaddling rain
In a hollow pearl.
Aperient paraffin.
Happiness now:
Being straddled in the sun,
Juvescence:
Fustigating the sea.
It’s win win win.
Inside the gall bladder,
The unstilted oyster
Is condited:
Redundant sud.
Quite self-akin.
Concite the hymns of Satan
If you find yourself perjured,
Faith is more recondite
Than delirium.
Terribly consanguine.
Win win win!
There are no marrams for skin!
-Pin Dew (01/05/2017)
Here let me rest a little while--
where the soil is lush and yielding,
where the trees reach out
in one magnificent embrace
of mother earth, silent teachers
of an archetypal love that history
could not disclose.
Here let me co-create
to meet consanguine shadows rising
from maternal clay--here in the heartland
where my dust congealed.,
where the breath is shared
again, again.
Moss invades the headstones;
my fingers trace the names,
while souls conjoin and know
that first spark birthed within the cave
burned hotter still in pilgrims' breasts,
still spreads its heat across a continent,
flaming in the eyes of youth,
smoldering upon the page's edge
and poised to leap and dance
upon the open hearth,
or to destroy.
Enter, solitude,
and in that place where roots descend,
reach forth as tendrils intertwining
with the past, there grows
a new tellurian peace
to trace the sun, earthbound
and free, still calling
from the ground to sons unborn,
"Remember me."
~
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