A Tributary In Servitude 5 Wings Of Morning

A truckload of dreams

and they will not come to pa.s.s— blackened sunbeams flicking through

thighs and armpits of the moon— helicrafts of holocaust over murky waters of

soul echo deaths that are mine by the lament of stones.

I hold its waters in my hands,

cracked chinas of abandoned testaments neither here nor there in dreams of fright, of fractured movements in

veins of matter, cla.s.sical theories of me dying with the music

of my dreams.

I hold its waters in my hands, summary of a pa.s.sion that led me into streets at dawn chanting the forbidden word—

a renegade toddler stripped and slammed

on the scout's slaughter slab.

In one onslaught of solitude through green eyes, options weighed, resignation denied

so propels the surge— the silent treachery of calmness, low ebb is rust

without soft landing

rammed into bricks and thistles of the mesh.

Out of which love beckons me

for I'm loved by one and one alone interloper now before your eyes trapdoor to treasure trove—

to win, you have to be fit and to be fit

you must be ready to win…

II. Nautical Dawn

Traveller, you have not been this way before. Take your gong and pipe,

seven old nuts awoken from earth's core;

Seven gourdlets of supplies hidden in your pouch as you step out this day…

Life begins at dawn

when the wrong dew sheathes

the green spear by the bank of the stream your head must wrestle with the mists

crop out your hands and squat for a camel's drink.

The journey will be long and the desert

a rough cross for the rebel where

the fixtures are sky-bound for even the

flattest of all springs has a crocodile in its sands.

Brother, I go

I take up the pillar, the post

the sins, the stardust of my time

the dilapidated sanctuary of thoughts— fresh earth for a new beginning.

I have communed with myselves,

drawn fancy patterns from the eyes of my grave after several dimensions of hermitage,

after several dimensions of savagery, after several dimensions of waiting.

I have seen a candle flame on the navel of my grave;

I have sold my fears I go to the winds

set for new horizons at the call of dawn.

III. Civil Dawn

If it must rain

let those who will not be cowed

come out with me to chase the leather…

The fox dribbled my clan on a muddy field after rain

the result is my aged limp

and this is a loss ensconcing route through the woods of time.

I pipe a wormy tune, having lost Atlantis

and drunk from the Atlantic of three histories.

Picking up the crumbs of life after a shattering blow

pauper in want ignoring crumbs from the tables my soul is fresh from the cleaners

marked at covert angles

by the memory of death that has killed my shame.
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You have stayed too long at this inn, what is this colour your laughter wears?

You murdered three men built poems on their blood; you murdered nine others

embalmed them in your shrine yet no one calls you a murderer

even the blood on your lips is the white of wool.

Your journey begins at dawn

when the wrong dew sheathes the green spear by the throne of your love

your head must wrestle with the wind reclaim your throne or die trying…