Dream-Catcher Poem by Ethan Moyer

Temptation, Inebriation,
Camped natural lamps,
Shaman chants,
Rants of the grand
Coyote tribe, gone
Strangled the peyote sinner
In the desert garden.
Great peyote monsters,
Breeding cruel heroin
Women,
Stark at the age 14.
Broken burlesque
Hawks
Materialize the sunrise,
Dance like sad angels,
With broken wings.
Great Indian corn fields;
Universal compilations of great
Celestial sands;
Sand-cities and oceans
Of melting time in grand
Grandfather clocks.
Time is yet the reign
The Great Reich festival
Displaying warm
Women wrapped in
Concubine dresses of
Burnt skin.
Blooming children suckling
Crack mothers, ignorant
Incense, romance resonance, and
It’s November 1st again.
Watercolor paintings with
Historical diamonds in
Its own demands.
Smokers breathing in the
Generation, cooing in
Transcendental dens.
I’ll never be
A saint of inscrutable trends,
A messiah in intrudible friends.
All I’ll reach in winter’s dead ends,
And hang my dreams from the trees.
In my blue attic of time.
Moonlight catchers,
On Film,
In the rye.
Cradle tourture,
Natural stigmata,
Nazi American flag.
Swastika replace 50 stars.
Dance parties, ecstasy, cocaine
Demons, and raves of change
Be named in the communist martini
Glass.
(Olive stabber.)
Now she's brought us back to the
Grim crimson, Italian gardens
Of fresh wine grapes,
Winding, vine-ing through
The afternoon tranquility, begins.
(Picture; Black And White.)
Re-birth of the American Night.
The road not taken is the road not shaken.
Die to get buried,
Die to get saved.
I won’t believe you now.
Oceans and islands,
Sail me to Thiland,
I need to get out of here.
Only the insecurities of small
Women will save me.
Care for my bones.
And I will leave them for you.
The roses still pull my heartstrings.
Send me to the willows,
And the lazy summer streams,
And cool warmed sun beams
Creeping through the willow leaves.
Slim buxom women, nudist
Heaven creation.
Odes to Chicago and New Orleans
Great black faces and soul shows
Painting god’s great vision
In the slums of New York.
Trumpets, Saxophones,
Guitars, Clarinets,
Trombones, Basses,
Pianos & Drums.
Wow.
Is there a night better than this?
Here, and now?
Creeping through her Victorian dreams
Of 1956, and we wilt
More sincere, less to fear.
I’m fishing for planets in the
Starry rivers on the edge of my bed.
Innocent toys tucked for tomorrows rise
Now we lie, in tranquil slumbers
Of the poets preaching in the
Strange constellations of your time.
Dreamland hitchhikers
San Francisco diners
Great city lights
Neon babies in
The cool ecstasy of
Black closets.
Away and depraved,
For 7 of days.
Holy vigils of
Natural decree,
Fascist Mockery,
And the dead leaves,
And the divine intemperment.
Hermits in caves,
Bats be depraved, musical
Cities and saxophones in
Grand graves of nostalgic retribution.
Coal mines, and Golden Gate Bridges,
Suits and Mannequins, Harlot sins,
Police station lights, dim yet bright,
Outta sight,
I’ll never go to this town,
This dream again,
Come with me, where you been?
Sentimental lusts of seasons.
Run.
I’ll be in the gold fields,
After the sunrise.