Pretention 3000
A simulacrum of sin: analogous to a union
Of man and divine.
It moulds itself through meshing of skin and soul
With blue fabric as lights dance
And flow into and from
One another. Candle-light
Strokes the air as glacial clarity pours
As sound. Desiccated rapture at 11am
Amongst grey; light without the
Threat of flame irritates. There one
Comes to realise the dissonance in
Motion: futility is filling space
Best-left hollow and the rapture
Is ignorance. Nothing can be made.
No glyphs channel our pathways.
What the room represented
Was a return, as had the molten
Purr of breath’s flow from her lips
In other rooms, in other times
Of sepia-anonymous colour.
To return to them at night;
To slip through windows sealed tight and
Come up behind her prostrate in the act of
Contrition. That would be the optimum.
But these are opiate nightmares, and nothing outside
Of falsetto yearnings vibrating hairs
Inside my ears while oscillating beauty
Spirals into crescendos expanding and unravelling
Can separate me from them.
No feverish shuffling of thought or creeping
Flesh distracts from that sense of near meaning.
No grinding of jaw, not even my own near death.
Not until the Craftsman’s pupils consume him in rolling
And his consciousness concedes to heat.
In that second of suspended grey at 11am
That exists between days and is purgatory
Continuous spiralling blues succeeded
One another, Ad infinitum.
Of man and divine.
It moulds itself through meshing of skin and soul
With blue fabric as lights dance
And flow into and from
One another. Candle-light
Strokes the air as glacial clarity pours
As sound. Desiccated rapture at 11am
Amongst grey; light without the
Threat of flame irritates. There one
Comes to realise the dissonance in
Motion: futility is filling space
Best-left hollow and the rapture
Is ignorance. Nothing can be made.
No glyphs channel our pathways.
What the room represented
Was a return, as had the molten
Purr of breath’s flow from her lips
In other rooms, in other times
Of sepia-anonymous colour.
To return to them at night;
To slip through windows sealed tight and
Come up behind her prostrate in the act of
Contrition. That would be the optimum.
But these are opiate nightmares, and nothing outside
Of falsetto yearnings vibrating hairs
Inside my ears while oscillating beauty
Spirals into crescendos expanding and unravelling
Can separate me from them.
No feverish shuffling of thought or creeping
Flesh distracts from that sense of near meaning.
No grinding of jaw, not even my own near death.
Not until the Craftsman’s pupils consume him in rolling
And his consciousness concedes to heat.
In that second of suspended grey at 11am
That exists between days and is purgatory
Continuous spiralling blues succeeded
One another, Ad infinitum.