{"id":2183,"date":"2019-05-23T10:18:18","date_gmt":"2019-05-23T14:18:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/poeticexorcisms.com\/?p=2183"},"modified":"2019-05-23T10:18:18","modified_gmt":"2019-05-23T14:18:18","slug":"the-great-opus-of-wandering-mornings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/poeticexorcisms.com\/index.php\/2019\/05\/23\/the-great-opus-of-wandering-mornings\/","title":{"rendered":"the great opus of wandering mornings"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/p>\n

visions
\ntranslated and transcribed
\nin the cool purr of morning
\nthe landscape is savage
\nprecise in its melodic macro-ecology<\/p>\n

and as the day begins
\nwe are closed, and at the keyboard
\nit’s our moment, this slick black cat and i
\nplaying a game of tender seduction
\nand haphazard production
\nlater, a lighter and hooded glories<\/p>\n

give me something short
\na retort
\nto papers strewn across
\na stained and endless floor
\nwait, i hear a faint evocation
\nas i fold the meter of reality
\nupon it’s face and laugh<\/p>\n

fantastic and fastidious
\nit’s time to return to that ancient tradecraft
\nthe number three eludes me
\nthree clicks blessed with
\nan anonymous and infamous kiss
\nwords are forced to fit together
\nlike soldiers, unprepared for war
\nno explanation, final formation
\nwe are worked up into a steady fever
\npreparing for a streamlined penance of thought<\/p>\n

love overdose
\nsimple life comatose
\nawoken, silent and slightly broken
\ni’m wandering among tombstones
\nlooking for style
\nplease don’t let me repeat this magic mile
\nas penniless princes
\nsurround this vulgar token<\/p>\n

white cigarettes and black coffee
\nblack is the best color
\nblack is absence and combination
\nlost and carried over from
\nmiscalculation and passive observation
\nmust we always embrace
\nthis dateless aggravation<\/p>\n

lay down, collapse
\ndestruction
\nshoveled into the pit of revolution
\nit’s resurrection
\nin the form of restitution<\/p>\n

the big cities are zombie playgrounds
\npopulated by cryptographic gangsters
\nsitting low in their junkyard lofts
\nas country dogs and city cats
\nroam the meridian night
\nalleys, curious specters
\nall waiting for opportunity<\/p>\n

children, monsters, men without coats
\nlips are parched, and the curse is set
\nthe air is like midnight morning, wet
\nas names are written on skin
\nforgotten in blissful sin
\nfeeding until the left hand is black
\nmystic signs hacked
\npassion patiently passes between
\ntwo words and three worlds
\nit’s a submissive nomination
\nreborn effortlessly
\ninto deviant meditation
\nas old gods die as new ones form<\/p>\n

addiction, benediction, proprietary release
\nsitting here with coffee and sex on the brain
\ni’m watching a lonely crow search for breakfast
\nmay the gods grant me
\nan escape from this lust that constantly grips me<\/p>\n

connection, conation
\nwhat changed me?
\nan affair of the hive mind
\nblind
\nto inner circles
\ndivine
\nthe wine poet spirit has left me
\nno longer haunting
\nexorcised
\nonly to materialize
\nat odd moments<\/p>\n

damn this slow moving pen
\nit’s delicate
\nuneven
\nand green forever<\/p>\n

\"329-the-great-opus-of-wandering-mornings\"<\/a><\/p>\n

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