A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.
Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,
lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen
suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,
cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate
in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre
the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier
of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows
and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.
Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.
image found here
My distant seas
Flooded the land
In the night.
My bright fires
Smell burned nostrils.
Pain.
Distorted are
The kisses.
My warm dreams
Frosted by
Extinct stars
And oaths
Which only the constellations
understand.
There they are
Like curses.
The thief took away the peace
Kept in a vortex ‘till then.
Frozen reflections sleep
Vanished flowers
Through irony
Heal hell.
2.
The wounds elicited hopes
To
Exhausted
stranded
onto the rocks of ancient seas
bring peace to the castaway.
They prolonged the eternal day
To one more wrathful hour.
3.
Have you not been brought by the departed
into dark regions
by the narrowness of heart?
Eat your own heart.
Let snow cover it.
The sight and breath return
After the strike of the matured essence.
Let Truth become essence to you
The quest
Pretty fresco carved
By the eye of the stern
Iced
Sun.