Blindfolded While I Write Destiny (A Title Poem) Poem by Leon Moon

Blindfolded while I write destiny (a title poem)

Blindfolded while I write destiny (a title poem)(I)
He will recite the magic spell (II)
The eye reflects (III)
A Number's fantasy (IIII)
The Shepard's Death: My immortality revisited (V)
The critics read off (VI)
Trust in Dusk Grain (VII)
Pending Atom Consumes (VIII)
The Orb of Sword (VIIII)



I

Geometry compact in the orange dawning room,

I.I

Geometry compact in the orange dawning room,
Voices combust on docks hanging from trees,
The shapeless heart of Moby
Addresses itself for a dream,
The mountain in the middle shaped like a whale
Wears a colourless cloud as a rain cap
And changes it's voice to hum through blood unimaginable.

I. I I

The soul entwined will soon reveal
Itself as weightless as stainless steel
Rining the spine to make you yield
Serpents centring in a beam of Sun reel,
For the set of Sun is the fact
It devours eternal love from a pact.
Though time is split in tragic fields
Spurred by ancient hands now robotic
We become what we admire
And fall to the chase's glory,
Held in banners from the bridge exotic
Naming spontaneity as it's own past rhetoric.

I. I I I


The hill followed down by a grade's descent
Clings to you like the luminescence of graves,
Bears over the backwards moss watching orbs crumble
The green light shadowing a picture of skulls,
Splitting the air it melts upon with a yolk of breath
The chopped rhythms rising to the sky which drowns
Your dream in a gulp reverting.
We stare at the present he brought us; —
Look at what he's came and brought us!

II. I

Look at what he's came and brought us!
The fascists of mercury wince their facets
And leave the circle dripping over it's assets;
We stepped by the March grave in hats and cliffs
Understanding nothing but themselves in reminiscence.

II. II

The Magician concesses over the aching music
Liquidating in the marrow of his skull;
How many hands wept backwards the eternal thrill
Steeping inwards over the present revolt;
Look at what he's thought and wrought us!

II. III

The investments of choral within mirrors
Sieve the palpitations, now referring;
All outline paternally in reforming
Bread won by the marshall's thump
Dripping in blood-throat waterfalls of trust
Neglecting the figure of self-unemployment;
We are one poem disguised in varieties,
Locks chew mirrors in your furiousness; —
We are one poem of impetuosity,
Locks chew mirrors in your furiousness; —
Neglected by the spheres falsification
As a personal tool of navigation
Owning one hand in it's amputation,
In the scenes framed by season's memory
We forgot the pipes glued to eye lids
And thrust a blade in the stars which hug.

II. IIII

From the hairless legs a feeling arises
Turning inwards ahead of the mind
And the light of the Sun and Moon,
How many times will I sacrifice myself
To the irony of my myth?
Bouts which do no more than redden the face of a squirrel?

II.I.I

Do owls bring panic to their prey?
I've inscribed my own time to perform
An endless yield of blackened fruits,
We've lost the vision which conceals itself
In yearnings of it's own delight,
Carving a masterpiece from the roots.
The sound for words which conform the flesh
Over valleys hardened by the Sun
And the varsity of Venus' light
Is the correspondence of soul
Abolishing a hood for the experience
With no head at all;
Does the flower know the blueprint for blossoming?

III.I

The soil gravitates black weights across it's gut.