Voluminous Signs

Deadly repose takes up your nearly burnt playing card, indecipherable.

Painted at the half, your trenchcoat of vertical black and white...you

naked beneath it, air running up you.

No scene is set, no sequence will degrade itself.

You were so meant for this role...that it left you alone--a station of

swarming crosses.

Antimatter, spliced photonic grace...what a smile, already the former

version of itself in a single spread.

The holy storehouse accosts you--it keeps you, its poet in residence.

I wish I could spy the top of your head, ride the gush of its luminous

geyser...to sit inebriated amidst a heavenly pool party.

It's not to be, if Be's itinerary were my estate...I could pick dead black

birds from its labyrinthine English garden, or throw doves skyward.

Nibbling fingernails, or pawing temple cannot arouse resolve, backfiring

nerves do not foretell the transcendence of the desired object.

That object stands there apparitional, to prod further delirium, to mix

and match voluminous signs preordained...indecipherable.

Flesh is aflood for frenzy of touch to report back, flawlessly report

back to its Godhood.

Konstantinos Mark

Reviews

[...]

. oh, i absolutely love this post ... and particularly these lines ...

"I wish I could spy the top of your head, ride the gush of its luminous
geyser...to sit inebriated amidst a heavenly pool party.
It's not to be, if Be's itinerary were my estate...I could pick dead black
birds from its labyrinthine English garden, or throw doves skyward."