Mantle-Piece Poem by Leon Moon

Piece
Do I predict future events or create them?
Are these boots and racks plated in blood, always cleansed by motion, the essence of happiness? Or the possibility of constant oblivion and infinite decimation within infinite possibility, the universe, ordained eternal?
Am I the only one aware of the Order?
The Maroon seed and convulsing webs, woven by the spider in the ceiling's fragments, resting on the dark horizon, the plateau of childhood, the senses and growth! The growth of a true climax...
Am I but these? - If I make them ancient so, I am merely an ornament, a personal antique, a mind in the mind.
I do not exist- I am alive through others, these are my principles.
(Until those waves filling over the horizon from the spider's rack covet the seed to grow, and live by the future...)
No landscapes are brave enough to be conceived.
No birth has been as perfect or whole as hopeless spontaneity.
Feel now, the breath of a dream awoken...
These lascivious enterprises mock the child in the man, or notice, observe and only study it? ... All sounds swarm, giggling wasps,
a hive transparent and swinging from the mantle piece.

Mantle

From the Cashew dough and nerves

Of Gold and Onyx gossamer

A veinless shell excretes curves

That fornicate with the soundless air;

Spontaneous, filling as it sinks

Into the infinitum of a seed,

The eternal adolescent thinks

Of the enslaved, coiled breed

Which seduces all apprehension

To recollections of a soul's tension,

(Now contrived to an intention)

Learnt by a child's invention,

His hairs and freckles, of a crown

Interlocked through the brown

Iron drapes, swinging above his frown

Of Violet, splitting the Pan's and Tea-bags of a Town

That floods and rusts with the liquor of a mashed skull,

Spontaneous, sinking as it's full…

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An artisan scouring the veins of a dream to solidity.
Bring forth from the soul, sloughed from birth.
Inherent purple and green manes swaying in modularity.
All dreams awoken, from I am the Universe, here on Earth...