the great opus of wandering mornings

visions
translated and transcribed
in the cool purr of morning
the landscape is savage
precise in its melodic macro-ecology

and as the day begins
we are closed, and at the keyboard
it’s our moment, this slick black cat and i
playing a game of tender seduction
and haphazard production
later, a lighter and hooded glories

give me something short
a retort
to papers strewn across
a stained and endless floor
wait, i hear a faint evocation
as i fold the meter of reality
upon it’s face and laugh

fantastic and fastidious
it’s time to return to that ancient tradecraft
the number three eludes me
three clicks blessed with
an anonymous and infamous kiss
words are forced to fit together
like soldiers, unprepared for war
no explanation, final formation
we are worked up into a steady fever
preparing for a streamlined penance of thought

love overdose
simple life comatose
awoken, silent and slightly broken
i’m wandering among tombstones
looking for style
please don’t let me repeat this magic mile
as penniless princes
surround this vulgar token

white cigarettes and black coffee
black is the best color
black is absence and combination
lost and carried over from
miscalculation and passive observation
must we always embrace
this dateless aggravation

lay down, collapse
destruction
shoveled into the pit of revolution
it’s resurrection
in the form of restitution

the big cities are zombie playgrounds
populated by cryptographic gangsters
sitting low in their junkyard lofts
as country dogs and city cats
roam the meridian night
alleys, curious specters
all waiting for opportunity

children, monsters, men without coats
lips are parched, and the curse is set
the air is like midnight morning, wet
as names are written on skin
forgotten in blissful sin
feeding until the left hand is black
mystic signs hacked
passion patiently passes between
two words and three worlds
it’s a submissive nomination
reborn effortlessly
into deviant meditation
as old gods die as new ones form

addiction, benediction, proprietary release
sitting here with coffee and sex on the brain
i’m watching a lonely crow search for breakfast
may the gods grant me
an escape from this lust that constantly grips me

connection, conation
what changed me?
an affair of the hive mind
blind
to inner circles
divine
the wine poet spirit has left me
no longer haunting
exorcised
only to materialize
at odd moments

damn this slow moving pen
it’s delicate
uneven
and green forever

329-the-great-opus-of-wandering-mornings

 

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