Naked Hunger For Love
© Surazeus
2018 11 09
Wide optimal cone of perceiving eye,
far beaming extent of truth, flowing wave
of rank consideration for lust, bright
as moonlight before dawn, wherever swift
weaves truth in threads for blind children to read,
although her face in bare tree knows my way.
Clanking spin of our last merry-go-round
converts frail mask of the clown to the king,
whenever my phone rings to alert angels
sleeping in shadow, since we owe false faith
to soothe horror of nothingness at death,
while attending circus in the wet tent.
Whirl of arms in mist, when the whip-poor-will
looks in my eyes, moon-blood red at midnight,
and wakes me from restless dreams to calculate
how fast my soul escapes my rotting corpse,
and catches my spirit with tangled wings,
so I draw its shape on cracked mirror with soap.
You cannot give up hope, she carves on tree
of rotting oak, so I give every bee
in honey hive name that represents why
frail flowers spiral petals, to imitate
sea waves which sing my true forgotten name,
through open door on evanescent song.
Trying to eat red pumpkin before green rain
tastes anguish that bleeds from eyes of mute ghost
who asks me every day why, I play-touch
nothing of white clouds beyond window glass,
if fractures can be healed, for laughing skull
to reply would seem incredible, true.
If we drive our wagon through flooding stream,
will happy Angel of Death snatch her coffin,
though upside down in radio waves we float
nowhere to see Word Wizard, yet each tower
of fractured glass reflects my mirror face,
since no one ever visits my warm tomb.
Backward falling in Massachusetts mist,
when morning sunlight on rocky shore sings
alphabet of spells, crackling thunderbolt
of truth to penetrate glass eye, though why
never accedes to request for the number
of birds dead from exhaust of factories.
You cannot follow me through story maze
I map to connect seven billion brains
with religious threads binding in one mind
naked hunger for love, swifter than flash
of bright indifferent lightning, though I grasp
broken branch fallen from Tree of Life.
Grass blades stab from my skin to become wings
omnipotent through questions, bitter howl
harrowing obnoxious contempt, from height
of Heaven falling forever, strange flame
laughing because they think they know the answer
explained by riddles in their holy book.
We sit together on soft couch of faith,
my daughter and I, in the clean bookstore
where Mermaids sing each to each before dawn
flashes horror of death, and exchange masks
that conceal passion foolish to express
through formulas for chemical thought games.
Almost sliding into razor sharp teeth
of God Shark, who asks if I can accept
his spirit of hunger into my life,
I leap through seven mirror-doors past time
of singing monkeys to become the angel
who remembers First Flash of the White Whole.
Someday I may return to Cambridge, town
where my ancestor chanted spells in mist
of Massachusetts to become the witch
of truth, and stand on lush shore of the river
to understand the mystery of her mind
which sings in every line of verse I write.
© Surazeus
2018 11 09
Wide optimal cone of perceiving eye,
far beaming extent of truth, flowing wave
of rank consideration for lust, bright
as moonlight before dawn, wherever swift
weaves truth in threads for blind children to read,
although her face in bare tree knows my way.
Clanking spin of our last merry-go-round
converts frail mask of the clown to the king,
whenever my phone rings to alert angels
sleeping in shadow, since we owe false faith
to soothe horror of nothingness at death,
while attending circus in the wet tent.
Whirl of arms in mist, when the whip-poor-will
looks in my eyes, moon-blood red at midnight,
and wakes me from restless dreams to calculate
how fast my soul escapes my rotting corpse,
and catches my spirit with tangled wings,
so I draw its shape on cracked mirror with soap.
You cannot give up hope, she carves on tree
of rotting oak, so I give every bee
in honey hive name that represents why
frail flowers spiral petals, to imitate
sea waves which sing my true forgotten name,
through open door on evanescent song.
Trying to eat red pumpkin before green rain
tastes anguish that bleeds from eyes of mute ghost
who asks me every day why, I play-touch
nothing of white clouds beyond window glass,
if fractures can be healed, for laughing skull
to reply would seem incredible, true.
If we drive our wagon through flooding stream,
will happy Angel of Death snatch her coffin,
though upside down in radio waves we float
nowhere to see Word Wizard, yet each tower
of fractured glass reflects my mirror face,
since no one ever visits my warm tomb.
Backward falling in Massachusetts mist,
when morning sunlight on rocky shore sings
alphabet of spells, crackling thunderbolt
of truth to penetrate glass eye, though why
never accedes to request for the number
of birds dead from exhaust of factories.
You cannot follow me through story maze
I map to connect seven billion brains
with religious threads binding in one mind
naked hunger for love, swifter than flash
of bright indifferent lightning, though I grasp
broken branch fallen from Tree of Life.
Grass blades stab from my skin to become wings
omnipotent through questions, bitter howl
harrowing obnoxious contempt, from height
of Heaven falling forever, strange flame
laughing because they think they know the answer
explained by riddles in their holy book.
We sit together on soft couch of faith,
my daughter and I, in the clean bookstore
where Mermaids sing each to each before dawn
flashes horror of death, and exchange masks
that conceal passion foolish to express
through formulas for chemical thought games.
Almost sliding into razor sharp teeth
of God Shark, who asks if I can accept
his spirit of hunger into my life,
I leap through seven mirror-doors past time
of singing monkeys to become the angel
who remembers First Flash of the White Whole.
Someday I may return to Cambridge, town
where my ancestor chanted spells in mist
of Massachusetts to become the witch
of truth, and stand on lush shore of the river
to understand the mystery of her mind
which sings in every line of verse I write.
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