One For Modernisms Poem by Leon Moon

A milky way revolving in my skull,
A barrel of blood leaking from the hull.
A spec of dust floating through my chest,
A rage of lust flickering through my rest.

The arc's mane erodes to dust at dawn.

Futility wears the mask of rhythm.
Before you wake, the heir dotes on silence.
Coffee waterfalls fill aesthetic rims.
The slave hums the hymns, mastering memory and sense.

Jewellery (usually necklaces) , scales, tongues exchange.
Surpass the quick quarry of paradise.
Legs are the handles for cracked pocket mirrors.
You invest eternally in all life.

Hour-glass sunsets fashion a history to squander.
Light beams are the arteries of thought.
Together, we breath dust for plants to walk again, together —
Evolution is the mind's regression.

I'm sick of these wiggling voices.
The music, disgusting wind, tiny, habitual cuffs.
Let me become that plum.
See one returning to where he's from.

The arc's mane erodes to dust at dawn.