the City of Invention / The Itinerant Country
member since 12.03.2010
there are more things in heaven or earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
How comforting is the sense of being plugged in to mediocrity? Do the distant drums of consciousness remind you of a crystal shard? Can the garden of forking paths ever reveal its labyrinthine machinations?
Out of Uffizi’s eyes
Mona Lisa’s murky smile
Arches in sinister calm
Toward the Ponte Vecchio.
There upon the blood of butchers
We stood leaning against the parapets
Watching, like condemned guardians,
Over nights of endless time,
Amidst the ribaldry of the throng,
Foolish minstrels in Medician dreams.
The moon, its silent tears spilling,
While Ra, dancing, rouses his minions,
Twisting and raging they come,
Working the gears of the old machine
With hyms and threnodies.
But I, like the moon, wait for the cool
Orion, the nightly succubus, to wash
And cleanse this sinned soul
In the clear waters of her grace.