Infant Vanity: Vol 1/16 Poem by Leon Moon

Eyes of frangible glass, skin weaved from shards.
As if concatenated to make his father proud,
He fashions his strut of memory, the dull cards
Of a suit that has creased from praying out loud.

His pale thighs and Sun-lined locks
Bind the conspiraring ladies to his owl-eyed heart,
Bustles and twit-woos of impetuous stoke arise! ridiculous flocks
Crowd the horizon. No appeal for them in his facade, his art!

He has honed his throat to a scythe, a bloody carousel
Of inundations that rock to his contempt and melt
Into tiny statues of war for his design of love, the artless hell.
His hair, lineal protection, ancestors locked by Ouroboros belt,

(The cotton lined egg smudged in fingerprints) was a reflection.
He tries hatred, out of fame or feline ambiguity, for a style
And comments on his imprisonment, his sacred genuflection,
Succumbing to what he does not believe, tying himself to a tale.

The Hazel veneers run as streams and instigate like Oceans,
His small bare-feet are coated in light, then dark, skins of brown;
He is slowly consumed by what once breathed, and begins to drown
To the shallowest cocoon of the Sea, enamoured by hollow fins.

The notes and scripts, (sacred, oh! -holy) tatter his bedroom floor,
Scarring the Ocean. Flickers of black squirm like mist within wood,
In war it should bleed from the tip of't, and the oil lamp of blood
Lights up all sounds, from the gargling throat of red, black thaw

And tickling buzzes that stretch from the waves shrivel his tongue
To retell tales of the Ocean, the strophe's of myth and action,
That line upon his lips like four breasted cannons, and read like a song
‘Had I renounced myself to the solitude of childhood fraction

At an age told so old, had I known the frustrated reason
That finds only woe, and no expressed divinity, in blood,
I would not idly serve as an applause for Pan and his treason
Of winds that glisten, like flames, spears of glass and ice.

The hermit hums the strophe's so pious to his youth and vice
In a cave, made organic through tunnels, tenches, knowledge,
Smooth pebbles and wasted brands of our memories pledge
Archaic to the pulse. Honed, from Hestia's redemption, like a knee

Genuflecting to our regressive ancestors, the waves of the Sea
Illuminate orchestrated shores (storms are a genre of their own!)
Each mountain-top should melt again, the musical of fresh smoke,
Where the musician is hidden in justice and the ships hull's bone,

Is lit by the masts of vulnerable intellect. (Bitter retirement) I stoke,
Unfurling visions of the glistening pearls and globe-cut fish
That swim on the crust of my finger, another balanced dish.

Leaves, plump and runny with red wine
Eyes, glazed in Ares vision and thick silence
Seduce my spring and I into a cloud of brine.
I suck the disease from fresh-cut grass, and dense
Flowers that hum to the buzz of purple scaled bees;
Carnal tower's gloom over the sniffling insects
And, as the purple weight of a senseless God,
Pour carcasses over the embrasures inspects
Of my rushing, and embracement of maya laud.

I am the eternal child who paces with a noose around his neck
And worries if the crowd will shame themselves for their respect.'
His hands would be red, the failed attempt of dignity, if the deck
Of wood for the hungry crowd was rocking and wet, not dry in intellect.