The shape keeps

by Drew Gold   Jan 23, 2008

The secret is to inform all modes of knowing.
a mind chews vacantly into darkness- rusts
with another's blood. it seeks to seal you in.

the twisted tryst of two angels towering,
smoking cigarettes up in the clouds- high
casting spells and wishes, blowing

forests apart like bricks; casting droughts
of liquid inspiration- the horn of Eld, mute.
A warlock disrobes an ageless sky: disorder.

slimy trees and rocks drop down, transformed.
an eye petrifies the wood- animals freeze,
everything gropes blindly in a cloudy pause.

a flash! gasps for light, frazzled delirium.
from the stars pillars topple, like stairs,
through clouds that bleed on the horizon.

animals hang darkly over the waters-
hair on end, back arched, teeth bared,
standing sentinel, vicious, hungered; waiting.

and vines reach out of that wilderness,
tangling green blossoms fade to red as ivy
slowly wraps around to embrace, receive.

the blossoms of the fingertips swell-
finding new reason unfurled, pinkishly.
to taste heat, absorb the sickness.

all the while, bulbs glow in the throats
to comb hair out over the lake-
pulling over the moon- heads sprouting

silver branches; it just must not look!
monsters brood, walking those mirrors-
and grown from the exit, these gardens

get buried beneath hourglasses of silence.
squandered by the mystery into believing
that something as hot as a fingertip

could trace the sides without melting
could slide through slick-sweat flesh
and burn without blushing.


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