A Forgery Of Spontaneity Poem by Leon Moon

have inherited these souls from my own delusion and who I once claimed to be still claims the hand and grows thick with the skin of an iconstrate. What an infant! Thoughts are their own conclusion and he peers from the crown; each hapless soul despises Sardonic Britannia. "We do not write to win, but to lose and discover everything, there is only one in fragments." But who speaks?

I I I I

I have suffered too much. The aligned mirrors, fractured teeth of see-dwelling gums, are no more than a memory. An intellectual is a robust ascetic, neglecting his own loss.

The thin cuts of Autumn's dress are crisp in wisdom
And a poet's success.
The mask of a ‘weakling' is absorbed by memory
And a writer's derangement.

Illusions seperate the innocence of intellectual uncertainty
Along with a teacher's pride.
Imitations crumble for they never seem to grow from sight
Along with a parent's brand.

A figure of rose white and knuckle grooved cheekbones
Is one with nothing.
A soul is trapped by a taught law of emptiness
And released by all.

— I'm Still Suffering —

I I I I

You cheap hump of flesh
(Hang me on the pillars)
You gratified plaque of deceit
(Look for me in the night)
You lazy ern of wastings
(Love me without the thought)

I want to know if this excursion is worthwhile,
I have pioneered my own worth, and seen a while,
I will give nothing but myself.

You unheard genius of Thoth
(Cradle me within the orphanage)
You imprisoned the creature of eternity
(Let me hide inside your shell)

I I I I

" From Rose! ", " From Brask! "
Colours shine, lips mumble
And the fountain gently glugs
"Of Teachings! ""Of Reason! "
Off with impulse, and the head
Of a twitching newborn man
- His part dribbles the rivers -

I I I I

So wild, so personal, publics wear chains inside out.
Pharmacies patiently strip naked
And collapse - their cells soak sight in sugary droplets
Of paint touched too much;
Necks are brazed in astonishment
And hatred has no cure for this hunger.

I I I I

The Parent morphs the space within
A patent house of pacing walls
And racing scars.

The Parent guides dictations of
Itself to the will of praise
And fracturing days.

The Parent seeks the infant out
And giggles at times too lost
Of untouched cost.

The Parent weeps alone too often
And has no children to learn or find
Only they live behind…

The Parent is a wasted muse
Of fertility binded in travesty loose
And senseless love.

I I I I

The Avatars hide before they speak,
The Alter is contoured in lipstick,
The Air is no longer reinvigorating

A simple expression is enough to soothe this pencil lined haze

/ / / /

The apples that shadow town squares and maple alleys
Are bruised but not yet rotten.Though, they're brown enough to be misunderstood
And scoured upon.
It seems the cobbles that make knees rattle are being unearthed
And shaved by their intimacy.Bustling whispers seem too hesitant for perfect steps
Each throat has been throttled by fear.

And in fear, these multitudes of trances march, and in bewilderment these steps command
Each cry was written before itself, one must make the world the sight's approval of the mind
And be rid of silver bones, silver shields and silver histories, take yourself as your only concern.

/ / / /

Night is the harpoon of royalty, a cloak of enwrought apathetic tenderness.
And so, such is the poet's beauty which lies in impulse, the true thought-out design.
We are all one, though not the same. Like night, we encompass all, sharing the spontaneity of forgery, but never coming close to sleep next to one another….

"The start, a flash of sound, was too spontaneous to be considered anything but eternity. Each corner of darkness shreds and looks upon itself in scythed cultivations; — and so…the almighty was born: And so…it was named; —
A burst of thought, a burst of nothingness…
Infernity idly births the patience of the grand birth no one should fear"