Listen Poem by Riano Harp

Listen - make sense of this you Greek:

Mists of Latin verse fog the air, growths of incestuous roots suffocate below bundles of fungi and the battered word - bruised only once by one's punch - ‘dew'. How funny is that. What is this but dust in what paints sorrow, or tremendous ectsasy, in avid illusions? Such extremities are nothing yet compile the great paint for the ever dripping, smudging masterpiece - never is it imperfect. The admiring wolf, who chews irony as he clenches his tongue, would choke you - at first - with concepts and philosophies. But even when we look in the mirror we don't see ourselves - nor generic replies. For my reflection is liquid, I have not yet caught one of the premises of life, I am lost.

Fountains of crystals spill
Reflecting glittering liquid
In breathing dust
And bowing men
I wish

As whatever you know makes you enjoy -can't be scratched, kicked or even exhaled through silence- the ink you'll swallow shall conjugate with your blood (into clumps and jellified shells) , blacken your heart and swim through your veins….pumping and pumping molten black, tainting your purity and turning your saliva into crying wax (you smell must from the church's bricks) .You're an explorer with a broken compass. You're a boar's tongue that scours in fear- blinking in the light of sanctimonity. A vexatious foreigner, a humble passenger, a noble flower, a sniffling dove, a colour's friend, a word. So whatever digests let all crabs feast and all tropical fruits layer- your beliefs await for your return.

Humble generosities of kings
Lucet convictions based in love
Offer breaths of warm sensations
As I wander, analysing, amongst the town
I wish

A prideful horse that rocks within its scars, a nighted room with chained shadows and whispers of a relinquished effigy that scratches at her clay heart. Spilt nestos free the inkers from barbarity, illusion, joy, sleep, truth, hell…But were we ever there? Or here? I am washed with waves from God's own sea, the lost buoy, wet and panting yet left uncleaned. I still feel as if I'm dreaming. To live, I mustn't sleep. So let me meet the brothers of my future and those spawned from intellectual hearts that write now- living with my mother. Though, they never saw that mouse scurrying beneath the rose bush on Saturday. But, I never met what they did instead. Such complexities cannot be touched and I daren't begin to think of touching it. And, for that matter, I shall not touch this poem. But, you shall touch.

Nostrums of his breath
Filter me from his being
And I am delivered from this light
Into his, into him….
I wish

Now- did you listen or did you read?