It is in a bright lt night that shines
he lays his bed
deep in hues of Lapis Lazuli.
In the corners sit the winds
dressed like musical chairs.
An olive ferments in a pastel saucer
into mossy green minutiae,
where a painted flower swallows
against its form, liquid spaces
in lean reflections towards a bottomless well.
Veils swim on the verge the flower
defines drawn against
an olive splash of skin
in the glazed lacquer
gloss to the anonymous images.
A cock crows cockle doodle do,
discrete, concrete, on the fronds,
ruffles in the red sprocketed throat,
a screech of feathers
stilled in the flowers passion
in the pool’s hoard.
The gibbous mound,
a crimson flash in the curtain
through which he passes
beneath the bridges.
A stairway in pastel hue
laps tranquilly cool
to a hole in a wall,
a cavernous breach which retains
the scream of the arch
scrawled on a screen,
defiant in the stance of plumages,
hordes of epiphanies
buried in petrified pastel ripples.
Below the rift of its eye
the sealed beak that will open
gleams on the lee.
Throughout the entire circumference
can be seen the tilt giving rise
to both translucence and transparency,
where the acid and oil separate
only to appear to coalesce
in the almost pure liquid sheen
containing its own light
even in the presence of the vegetative
silt at the bottom of the bowl.
At the moment of its brimming,
at that line of definition,
in a room that roams without corners,
he must rise with a chalice of blood for lips of shades,
where the vertigo edge of the flower distills the dish
together with the quantities of immeasurable throng,
catacomb coombes head to foot on stilts
on watery groves billowing with ivy bowers
sprung over hidden lairs of concealed hoards.
Night begins and the dogs draw nigh
scavenging for scraps
yapping at the walker’s naked ankles
in the dust of unknown allies.
The broken lights of the bazaar
spangle with glittering promises
and the eyes of the dusky beggar
sunk in their sockets maze
in crooked cul de sacs embargo
amidst the furls of silk that foil
the flickering lantern niche
throttled in an olive tray,
whilst the flower’s blur does not allow
the stroke that blurs its horizon
and all beneath to return.
It is helpless in its light,
a camouflage to visitation,
to the sigh of the rock’s flow
so few, so few, so few.
The olive saturates its wish
outlining monuments amidst the rubble
in momentary musical explosions
and the spell is cast.
Fireworks like a diaphanous lithograph
print an emblazoned sky
on the craggy mountains of the night,
where comets play at kites,
and glistening the eerie beak hisses.
