You are walking in the museum of now-humanity’s ancestors.
You, the descendant, smiles in your crooked way. They are in jars.
They are displayed from a far and being made money for.
And the fire casts to all a long shadow, and the shadow veils on you
Perfectly and still functioning. “You failed,” you whispered to it
Like a melancholy chub no longer a longer, apricot-eyed.
“You failed back,” theirs seem to reply, the nefarious pointing and taunting,
From the cylindrical glass where chunks were preserved, the bullet-topped
Chunks of history, chunks of your avarice in a pollinated sweat-box
Pout like a produce that’s dead but continues to romance.
“My favorite thing to do is promise something and never deliver.”
You have delivered the todays. You, then, must have failed the conquer.
Storms be going.
Under the display, it reads, “Luck and love that are worthwhile–
Luck and love lax close to our parables–”, and riddles only for scribes.
But you cannot push a bouquet out of the stems that’re taking their time.
“Let’s be a little more lenient, then, the next time we love.”
You, then, are– with the present’s high tides. You must be so– with your other museums.
To the child, the day has a sort of playful rigidity to it.
“But we are no longer children. I suspect we never were.
We cannot just be swayed by the discord of the wind.
I expedite my writ and wrath from the beloved living grave,
“Exercise my wit and carve a monumentous build up– an op–
And take my underlings, the sages of tomorrow for the cause.” They are costly.
Go and go, then, to your pages. Go and go. Get them ready and dying for a close up.
The storms are forming.
You look around. You are now singular on tour. A plenty minutes ago,
The non-primaries are nimble. So many ci-villains, aliens, bailiffs, maidens…
You don’t know what is real in heralds by heroes but zeroes and gas-cloud railroads.
The highway dosage tidies the tides, tidies the brides. You are untidy. Untidy alone.
Venus rises with her lavender beauty, eclipses her moons with a vengeance.
Excuses herself with formed amnesty. This is the purple song of a satelliter.
“You careen and carry our sporadic little protrusion for our coração from Curaçao,
But so seldom do you oppose.” (You don’t want opposition. In that room, you glow.)
You guess, as many great philosophers have guessed before but never spoke,
It’s all about the beauty in the set-up, and beauty in the downfall.
The in-betweeners then become the victims. They become the ugly ones.
The in-seminaries you pray for, in your bedrooms, to dispose.
(“Hallelujah!”) The slums were never prepared for the apocalypse–
The apocalypse, an apocalypse,
Can only be survived in castles where our kind’s greatest paintings were never hung–
Hung on, hung from. The fortresses are darkened by the candles that guide
Remainders at night–
And the nights are prolonged. The night expectorates and evolves
Myriadical and hallucinatory as our subsisters
Inexplicable as the Everglades ever was to those who wanted beauty to usurp from the muddy hells,
The stevia hops and bops, the poor exercise in unsalted eugenics
And our inconsequential little luggages, virile as they get, take the most out of our deserts…
And many do truly weep. And many do truly seek…
In the face of abomination and mutation, we are nothing but dwarves in an endless tunnel…
Storms are tunneling
Trying to mine for faces of tomorrow, only to reconcile with the path we carved.
This museum is a tunnel in heat,
And the heat is preserved.
And the heat lies. And the head, fresh.
The anthems are sexual but never about rebirth,
Only about souls colliding, never bonding, never for three Earths.
Our jurassic world and our jurassic mess
Will become bygones. And the bygones will evolve to more bygones leaving nothing but distress in the hallways.
And the corridors wait for three nights, three days.
Lady Lazarus, Gay Lazarus… Anything but man resurrected, regurgitated…
“But I am happy now, happier than I’ve ever been,
In the sunlight where the acid in the air never gets the chance to touch the skin.”
(Contusion treatments have failed the dryer splots and splinters.
The zones are the color of the leaves swept in September– the color of a villain.)
You have been itching from behind the red dividers now for a tick that’s too long.
You advance as a night guard, shivering, underprepared,
Lacking knowledge but say your knowledge is your Passion.
Funereal foragers and foresters fussing about Passion.
Passion is the most contagious voyeur of our universe.
Passion, albeit a titan, may often as well be wrong.
They wake you up with a shot from your bed, One-O’-Three, and scream:
“Hallelujah!” again. “I pray for Them to down the pinkish rain!
I pray for Them to remarry the great and grander, the committed sin!”
The storm, Kei themselves in the real at their six o’clocks,
Licked the ear with the long tongue and whispered,
“Don’t you dare, kid… Don’t. Just don’t… Don’t remarry the dead.”
(Don’t cross to the dead version of the pourer, red–
A pleasanteuse, a pleasurer, a plead.)
Storms, savage and recurring. Kei and Kei make you stay,
If not in bed, then, maybe, as a captive in the head.
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