Festivals Of Imminence Poem by Leon Moon

Teal hyde brawns my youth's prime,
The prelude of the chime,
Flicks the rose daggered coat
Loosening our cadaver;
The whirlpool arches further
Inward, capturing the moat,
The purple frosted coconut
Has the eternal appearance
Of being high-tech; -
Golden hair, unforgettably freelance,
Enveloped by veiny cuffs of a mother,
No one's fault but air,
I return to myself, prolonging nowhere,
Biting death's fortune, a remorseless affair.

Stumped enough to see straight,
The raped warrior's fate
Too typical to earn
Respect, I temptly discern
The robotics of a new constraint -
Free to think, hollowed to a gorge
Of fibonacci seesaws rocking to taint
The prestige which I desire to forge,
The unwelcomed art springs into action,
Taunting and taunting before I can rush like the hours
Inside the black neck of swans guarding the pavillion,
Stuffing me in the basic mechanisms of their wings,
Hollowing my soul to butchered murmerings.

Crumpled ferns keep me afloat
The rocks cut with a smudge,
Pinging wells from my throat,
Will drown me in a touch;
Revolt is the disciple forced
To sleep in the cranney of a flashing lens,
My childhood was cursed
By retributions of return,
Self-willing starvation which now sends
A breeze to remind me to glance down
At my scathed, withering flesh, each burn
Scolded to a remark, snarking on how I would've grown
Into humanity's devourer,
The last true saviour,
Less the trick be played hereafter.

Left, away from bitter,
Healed by rotting sugar,
Rummaging through the whore,
I became dawn's emperor;
typically executed by a full stomach,
Anal tidings, each note plucked, feeding to be malnourished,
I treat myself to parades, floats and the divine, yum, ache
Of feasts caressing the fertilized witness
Who layed bent on the desk, lays bent on the table
Which is all treble, bursting through pores, galloping to a fable
Awaiting the shellshock of summary
And the smell of twenty, the twenty-two hour nunnery
Where hairs wince, untangling from an egg-eye of ivory.

As jawless as the summer
As lawless as the gunner
Licking flesh for another,
I tear the world asunder;
If I was silent, the universe would be mine,
The grain is buried until sound
Disturbs the blind passing of time,
A bee stems from the dry ground
Only to be found, and deflowered
By the search of a long lost lover,
The narcissism destined to be devoured,
This is the secret of matter;
I wrinkle in my only carnation
And surpass the automatic heckles of redemption,
Reconnecting violet to sunlight destabilising winter.

The liquid rubber frames
Pop like bubbles in the rain,
Objects parting ways
From cemented pain;
The always lamented refrain catches fire
And reduces the galaxy to a small tire
Burning like the devil's asshole, an angel's pyre, just for a shadow
Stalking freedom - all shared, she says, - like the moth's quilted libido
Crouching to the cross-eyes of bloody echoes inside some Mary's gallow;
I give her my heart, clotted to a heel, dead men cop a feel
As they pretend to be your ancestors, when love was real;
They are the landslide itself, submerging in the exchange
Of anticipatory deshevelments, destroying by holding the loyalty of change.

I improvise insolence
To find new numbers between,
I entrail a new sense
By re-creating births scene;
It's true God is forever bored,
Forever lonely and confused,
But he also has to hoard
The opposite, else how could he be amused?
So, I am a star from ink,
A splodge of shadow from His Darkness,
Igniting the endless will to think,
With this device, the demon inside jesus,
Blood from water, snarking at all things serious,
I create existence, which is to say
A new God, a mystery to mystery.

The cowboy's sacrifice
Is long and unheard,
Nevertheless the dice
Without sun white is endured;
A heart on its hind legs
Rummages for stinking gold,
Wafts in a new phase and pegs
The serene to blotches of mould,
I scour under a wrinkled thumb,
Belching to the cult of idealistic wind,
Fingering as if I'm empty like the rest in mind
The dream spell key of some dead mother's womb.