Downstairs there is a joke
That
emanates as a vile curse
Into the cellar’s lair,
A gourd filled with smoke speaks in a voice,
Human,
A mindless bowl
of mirth
inflamed
glasses grow cold in the unheated concrete glue,
a fixture
of the dead past,
a golden consumer begs with a throat full of tears
in front of speakers
throbbing
with broken-hearted names
burning up
in a heat of worldly instrumentation,
transcending this same-self curse
with a
storied high
of
nameless voice
carrying through the skin of animals,
trees
and the
fibers of mountains’
sacred
internal
beat
flipping up to atmospheric light
in a shrouded daze
of infinite
flame
rising
to universal stature
beyond the
mold of unbroken life
turning the heart of man into the cold dead stone of
ethereal triumph,
a spiritual womb formed
at
the fingertips of an artist healer
pursuing
the groove of an epoch
stolen
from the mind
of silent law
in a world’s motionless yearning
from
afar
in the dark
fearless
night
No comments:
Post a Comment