Saturday, 29 November 2014

Now... A Mere Cricket In The Court Of A Swift While It Preens

His Head... A Pilgrim's Rock,
Fattened From The Precise Movements Of Plates Shifting,
A Sit UpOn ItSelf With No Wall Bricked For Ladders,
Elevators Clicking Like His Brain Rideing Its Spine,
From The Crowned To The Pawned Then Back Up Again,
Honey-Dipping InTo Tinmah's Shroud And Pride,
Towards Brushes By Horses For The Lion's Den,
Promising Wings Dripping With Virgin Wine And Hanging Gardens,
Before The Cage May Take Another Liar For Its Wheel...
Now WrathFull He Clings To His Cloud,
Then To The Woods To Mingle And Merge With The Hickory,
To Then Be Woo'd As Desdemona... Though At Least To The Poor Atoric,
With His Bridal Bit To Drag Over The Window's Edge,
Not Letting The Glass Slip UnderFoot,
To The Streets Below... Past The DriveWays And Under The Heavens,
His Toe Tied With Twine Knotted And Anchored Miles Down,
He Floats... Catching Lightning And Hopeing For Openings Over Soft Parades,
His Pillow... A Philosopher's Stone.

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