Serpentine Caravanserai

Edgar Allen Poe? They say, it was him:  his face ... exploding in the human eye 

dot by dot, across cosines of imaginary numbers -- lighting in the

 eye as if it was an otherworldly flame, burning it's visage from the depths of this dark century.

An actors face?  An assassin's bullseye? the Ghost of a Dog wandering a Human Womb

as if it was a forest?

A drunken ventriloquist, stumbling from heart to heart on feet made of fire. 

forward and backwards it raced.  Now we know. 

The lie is written across the white flesh of time.  An empty zoo of doppelganger orphans,

vomiting the starlight into gardens of incomplete wisdom.  Crushed phantasms, whose

fingertips sparkle like bones in furnace of the wintertime Sun.

It is not just a face. It is a summit of equations that were discovered by 

brimstone and the language of butterflies.  It is a dinosaur cartoon, written by

the Sparrows as their wings beat into the silent wake of the Star where the Asteroid turned them into 

angels of the last disintegration. Her mouth bleeds, an apparition of the Seraphim. There is a coded melody,

the lost art of Perfect silence, the last Words of Pythagoras that whirl 

until One can hear the jeweled

parables of God's tongue flick the night into a frenzy of bacchanalian horror.

Blue lights  taunt the Old man's eyes 

into Casinos of fury and silence.  The vagabond smiles, his face like a 

newborn trout in the blink of a light bulb

where the ceiling is the color of Michelangelo's eyelids at night 

jungles of broken bone that weep when the Pope is not sleeping 

Ruby colored contours drape the  flesh in caskets of light.

Pore by pore the darkness exhales it's messiahs.  And the night itself is a candelabra drawn 

by crucifixes bathed in  whirlwinds of exotic caravanserai, 

a Hunt against Shadow through the Circus of indescribable beings,

ghosts like strange children  trampling the clouds into a vineyard of tears.

Poe, sitting inside the Atom, his face shining at the edge of the cliff where the 

waves are torn into shreds, his flesh billowing like the veil of Lost Lenore: raped with the descent of the 

twilight. 

I know it is Them: those who slip through the world on silver footprints, their eyes costumed by convenience 

in the catacombs above the museum, their souls tracing diamonds 

across the dust of the free - men's eyes.   Every word and idea, is a serpentine prayer, 

ancient harmonies of flesh and word born against madness that now race across

the world, staining the eyelids of all God's  revolutionaries -- Rasputin and Einstein, their dreams

somehow knotted in the logic of His supernal elopement into the corpse strewn soil.  The angels of the 

lesser world.  The red blood of the gathering storm. The legion of men whose lives are like 

molecules of unfinished imagination, stirring with powers unseen.

It becomes something else; there is no ratio.  No lexicon, no Rosetta Stone that grants 

access; but rather a series of thoughts that arrive like the last words of every person ever spoken

night after night, as if the solitary ions of their flesh contained masquerades of unreason 

whose sole purpose was to transpose the human soul into a perpetual non verbal elopement across

the threshold of the Bride and Groom

bathed funeral moon of infinite freedom. 

Reviews

[KatDarkness]

Wow! Your style of poetry is awesome! So many unusual descriptions and turns of phrase crammed into one poem is just brilliant to read. My favourite line was "An empty zoo of doppelganger orphans." I'm Definitely adding this one as a favourite :)

[Hawkmoon]

thanks! :) have you ever read the French Poet Arthur Rimbaud?

[Robin]

surreal phantasia this is mind unleashed , to the precipice of awareness , the view only for the brave ...