Ètude Poem by Leon Moon

The Bath
Is his sacred distraction
Too many have died here.

Donated duty
to erect in history;
renew history
a new history

I do not idolise you
I wish to rival you

vandalise the rebels houses
the Gardens of Revolution
each man thinks he understands

The Golden Continuity
Sours the wind; twists
an object to be preserved
and consumed, vivd extinction

here, hold my souvenirs
of evaporations

I cannot age no matter how much I pick my skin into placards
parcels wrapped in flesh
compressed by the words they confess

behind the schoolyard
canals are engineered
bloodstreams of the Manufacturer
too many to be counted
or explained

addicted to loneliness
shells, engravings, spells, savings
gravediggers can only recounter
the present has nowhere to encounter
I seek neither

Love's Psychosis
Resuscitated

the sanctum of prayer
regained
vessel-alluring-desire
is not safe here
I claim no victimhood
the cut-throat path
to righteousness

Trickling Mazes

find the vision
where no prophet is to be made

The destruction of empires
the face of order
The laboursome oath
The promise to change

Each revolutionary makes.
Their naivety is currency.
They haven't purged their instincts
Nor questioned reason
And Her Birthplace.
Prescience.

I have no air
To sign

But my property
And yours
Must never be relinquished

Your Ego
The way back to Self
Must remain priceless
Do not lose it

All you have
Death
Will only be lost momentarily
but you must not remember this
else your imprints are blind to the spirit of refuge

Erect spires
Subtlety
Involve no one else.

The most successful Invasion
is subliminal.


Behind clockwork
As patient as zero
As ancient as zero
As wasted as zero

Outlines of a compass.
do not be stifled by your own refusals
Culture moves
The tide does not notice.
Your hero has no womb.

Agents of Deception
The Divine Reception
Fathers no accidence
Mothers no coincidence

Children of Egypt
Have corroded meaning
Rearranged ERUPTION
Only few have gripped the Sound.

The music you love
Has been designed
By hidden hands
Spontaneity is a forgery
Compromised Authenticity
No wonder
There is no desire to dance

At The Centre of
Eternal Attention
There is no pride.

The camera pointing at you
defaces the layers
hiding the true image of you

Dawn Orphans Dawn

They wish to never know again
who they are
you know enough
too much
you know enough

Overgrown honesty
Resentment of the power you hold
Guilty for dependency
excavation brings
Despite no wrong
poaching spite
nothing to write
you have left the world
Perfectly Undiscovered.

I dissuade No One
The imperial Action.

The water has stopped
no one taught me ice could breathe
the oil has deprived me from heat
The Tank
is totally empty

mother has granted
me a duvet
for the living room

Abandoned
by his dreams

Stop Signs and Carnivals
The Sun is a Cannibal

I take no part in the acquisition of spring.

His slurps
complains of aches of pains
Are an act
Yet he knows not so
we laugh behind his mask
draw pictures on his back
but he doesn't mind
else he wouldn't tactically
defuse his questions
The Right
To be intact

serving is his disguise
he needs authority
sanctified paralysation
sense is too important
logic too obvious
he can never be wise

the atheists in protest
justifying brutality
embody christ's vanity
a layer he didn't own
it is their entire identity
they will never be nourished
a disease to be healthy
unaware
a martyr has no eulogy
their outdated epiphany
outdated
in the first conception
of time
in the first conception


heard only
by the deaf composer

his melodies are miracles
he'll never hear himself ask why:

heard only
by the deaf composer

in the first conception
of time