The Apocryphal.

On the high horse of hymns I sing stretched by the remains of the colossal odds, praised by the roots of the sun and the pulse of earth vibrating in language obscene. The chill of restless waters and the many dawns bidding on ancient reign; hold close the distant voyage.

In the somnambulant shrubbery,

Hidden under the afternoon swing,

Garlands descend and perch,

On the shoulders of the king.

O how smug! When the morning star looks upon the evening as the tremor of a tulip is reduced to reason. I shall sit cold, reminiscing on a musical beach with my feet at the edge of the shore. I concentrate and take the attention away from the flowers, which with their fragments of talent spread rumours of compelling devastation. I am embarrassed by serious naivety as the angels sit upon the lips of earth, blowing kisses…

My cheeks full of red thrills; as I caress the dark thrall of deep adorn

I heard the chattering of teeth in the turning of an eye. 

And the obeying law aroused by a yawn.