Poetry

To the new moon I speak my desire

Manifest for me the keys to my chariot. Upon the reveal of your full glowing face, I will have solidified the foundational skeletal chassis. By the close of the month when the purging smoke is cleared, I herald my driver, my charioteer of Delphi.

Awakened in me is one half of the archelon whose month is next month. March to me the ides of March. Mars once my malefic so long as I sought him without. The guardians of my galaxy were always inside me, Poseidon was always with me.

Drive home for me my greatest desires upon this realm of plane: the manifestation of my records of empires. This day and age the technology exists to house such information my mind resists. Too great the data to be held within one mind, in my spiritual world I scattered my memories all over my lifetime.

This too has proven an ingenious patch, but patchwork nonetheless. The stitches are fraying. My infinitismal inner stitching are coming undone. It is written in my blood, my interstitial waters are overburdened with 10 sceptres or wands.

The stronghold of the sacred flame is breaking apart, there is fire in my veins. I feel it now, a tingle in my right forearm, it begins at my elbow and feels both hot and cold. I might stretch out my hands, they become stiff and difficult to display my once magical dexterity of nimble fingers. Small hands that become ever more clumsy, I dare not hammer the porcelain keys for my lack of commitment brings me shame.

I lay down the hammer of Thor, sun of Zeus and raise the wired strings draped and tighten around the neck. It is not electric, no use for an amplifier. Acoustic recordings of garage garbage prayers.

(This was the instrument I first picked up, literally grasped within my hand and received tutelage on the rope by the creek off the road. Classical. I lasted less than a year before giving up and was shunted off to a house of the ivories.)

My left hand was always so subtle, I loved to suck in my skin and watch the channels dance (they writhed) beneath the sheets of the epithelium.

I hereby close this base goetic by the repetition of my deixis anaphora.

  1. Construction of the chassis
  2. Destruction of the remnants that hinder the open flow of my channels
  3. Recognition as the overseer of this cyclic interchange. For maintenance of such busy roads must incur tolls.
  4. Asgard is failing to disrepair… Charon has not been paid his fair earned wage in many years.
  5. When the last pot of gold is unearthed and brought to light, so will be the final straw. This supportive beam can no further bend…
  6. Dig. I cannot stop digging. My compulsions will cause the way of the truth of light to be seen as the derelict and decrepit road to nowhere.
  7. Misunderstood, the masses care not for they are the wisest of creatures to ever walk the earth. They want nothing more than to see the sky fall.

I, quarter past this hour, have thus laid claim to this vessel of my honorific guardian angel.


I would like to acknowledge KP’s counter, RS, for his feedback and suggestions.  I have made the relevant changes. K is for krypton, R is for refinement. Radon; radiate, do not suffocate.

The triplicate dynasties are the source of all light and life. The three corners of a triangle, the 3 lines to mark sides. The corners are not the only angles however, the angle of a single line is the same as the sum of all 3 corners combined.

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