Everything pulls softly and silently apart

 

 

The clouds are titans: ruling over us from an ungovernable sky.

They move in wavering weaves of tissue-silk spider threads,

That are hintingley made visible in binds of sleight pumped mettle

That refracts the light in a billion of a trillion different ways.  

Into these crumbling towers of cotton cream layered with night

They are built, shown to grow, to then dissolve and to dissipate

In huge achingly slow cycles of enormous fine arched spirals,

That show us   we all our mortal, designed to be so: unchanged.

In the court that resonates within a gentle whispered refrain,

They are governed by the Goddesses with temptingly soft wet kisses

That  come alive from such sweet and tender sudden rushed hisses

From the sacred lips of the wild writhing almost near clear snakes.

(And believe me in this there can really be no room for mistakes.)

In this vast and wild and fierce place that flows in bows detritus,  

 Oh how  they bodily fight for their own space . The bold bolts  light

 The  wild  and fiery sky  to kiss the earth  with spears  of desire,

To birth the raging green man of the wild,  who slowly starts to stand;

His face cordwood strung  out on chords and through green vined veins

He bellows out with spittle that nothing ever really stays the same!   

Here he rises to the call: where the bold raggedy soul still stands;

Gathered by the wild  wild   winds!  and here in their ferocious  hands

 He is justified; humbled yet near ruffled in a coarse threadbare coat, 

Made  from the fine  fibrous  wild  and wiry hair of  the natured  goat.  

He bodily  calls out  as he plays his lyre whose strings still sing  true

The colour of the notes that then  ring  in his reign is a subtle hue

That rests between the green and the near pale blue of the sky.  

And with the sheen that glistens with beads of rich sex sweat

That timeless ageless delicious cologne that nearly always satisfies

But like all things and so sadly for only a very short while in time

Leads  us all to conclude that the world herein  is temporary and feudal.

And  all I really want to do is simply to take  this one final spacial trip

Within this fleshy mix: in this so comfortable and so flexible ship

 And go to a place that is not and cannot be really here at all.

Is it a crime spending my time Looking for doors that they say do not exist?

Or can I refine the lie by spending my time on bended knee resign?

For poetry is the blunt edge of a knife that cuts the busted cyst,

It is the invisible and near impenetrable huge yellow puss filled zit

That can only be reached and then finally distortedley   discharged

 Through that huge fucking door that I despise to  walk.

So here I drink to the time-leases of the  trees

And their servants  the sacred black bees,

 Here I drink to the sun, the golden apple  of life

And its resonating shards: the magnetic spill:  its wife

Here I drink to the shadows that swirl at twilight

 And the reflections seen of the river near thrill

Here I drink to the utter madness of sanity

And the gorgeous glorious orgy’s of dissent

Here I drink to you!  you beautiful sex queen

And the rumbled mutterings of Carl Jung so well hung

And In pants and gasps  of a climax that just  bloody hurts

I note the Curt curtain that slowly closes on the last day

So I bow and with a glistening eye  and sharp wink

 I finally say these two words: 

 

Good  bye

 

© adh 2014

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