Leon Moon
Leon Moon Poems
Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen
...
It turns out, and with all spiritual sincerity, I belong to the Eve of Starvation.
An infinity objectifying its own existence, I slaughter the opportunity of eternal nothingness, weaving flesh from a pendulum struck by a tear of lightning.
Everything tilts but never turns, seemingly capsizing without ever fully being sunk.
This rare moment we call the universe cherishing its own existence is pure negation.
...
Condemned to the last subjective death,
Freed by the assessment of sorrow,
Frenzies of glass crystallise a breath
Preserving the final reign of tomorrow.
...
Deprived of her depravity
She relies on for sanity,
She rips me apart so silently,
Crushed by the wind of her armed neutrality,
...
Only If I had the braveries of Dawn,
Where all is possible and all is seen
But I jump out of bed and arch in drowsiness
Putting socks, trousers and idleness all on my suit
...
The Earth I find
Is the centre of my mind;
Despite infinity
It shows itself to me;
...
Never tired, he lugs the weight,
Setting salt stones in his ribs.
He reaches for the weight
Which every orphan dwells for —
...
O' watery Muse of transparency!
Entwined within exaltation's summit
Eclipsing, from throats, vales of poesy
For the will of a canopying Hermit,
...
A milky way revolving in my skull,
A barrel of blood leaking from the hull.
A spec of dust floating through my chest,
A rage of lust flickering through my rest.
...
Tuning to a fate which rewires the screen
I hurl straight through the roulette of clouds
Deflating in sticky layers over a chandelier of sap,
A lid whose kiss is a reformation of solitude
...
In orange fields where troupes of hares rehearse
Singeing exotic the prosaic grass,
Eyes slew out the last breath of summer.
Oak veins curdle oiled sap to mirrors,
...
I
Sepulchres declare romantic archaisms,
The beast's historic famine portrays
...
Only If I had the braveries of Dawn,
Where all is possible and all is seen
And all life is congressed by fortune of thought!
But I stumble out of bed and arch in drowsiness
...
An old friend, through a ginger pulse
Hums nacreous negations of verse
For canals plundering music from clouds,
The still-sac robe forecasts a script to bone
...
Rivers of the Universe
Exile marble neophytes
In ducts faithless as Dawn:
Such freedom condemned to verse,
...
Dissolving through posterity's amnesia,
I heckle to instances of golden echoes
Curling over under water streetlights
Calling forward the silent widows
...
Discretely, the dream casts a spell of breath —
A soldier carves himself sloping against metallic caps
Sharpening nuclei with vibratory impressions of light,
A purple watchtower rotting the horizon
...
I resist royalty in silence.
Memories try and convince me I don't mean it -
I do, with all my heart, which at present
Is hijacked by the focus of descent
...
Leon Moon Biography
I am Lucas Omar and Sebastian Amarti Manx- Booksie)
The Best Poem Of Leon Moon
Virginal Boy
Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen
Or in these recitals of trickery; on parole I tote,
Reclaiming a vision my brows set and clean,
To trim loft droppings that rise across Dawn's boat:
Is maturity merely the itches of what could've been?
Where by one must fashion a senseless coat?
Ah, I am naked and the lion struts his claws on sand so lean
On dryness breaking, pilgrimages waking: make weight of this half-skinned goat! '
The Father upturns his snout,
I have come to know the normality of kings;
The Mother crafts a decrepit pout,
I have come to enamour the stillness she brings;
The Brother is split by parting grout,
I have come to listen to the song my heart sings;
The Girl waves in her familiar stout,
I have come to hate the isolation of wings;
The boy remains untouched in a timeless bout,
I have came to immortalise these healed stings,
His hands are tired, but fated desire sees him out!
The hull of secondary thoughts conceit the sight,
Sunrise is left in a sprawling heat, a quivering mess
And shells of flesh dangle from the rouge clouds, an angel's delight;
Melpomene's indignation is configured in the sky's encompass
And I see myself in old age, perfectly bright
And full of abominable youth, so sly my age may be less;
Was the soil sewn breath? Ah, to bask like a virgin before the light!
As submissive as a druid, a blind man before lambs on warm grass
Thought not apart of it— I hired a play of performers in my mind and set them alight;
Throats and Lionskins ribbed the stage, the heart is ashes of carnal from a player's congress
And a manuscript is left untouched by a Playwright:
‘It's death in idleness, the fool's crusade of Dawn's height,
Enwrought in speculation. Resurrection has become a daily pass
And children are rendered thick with mane and fight,
Beseeching themselves for roars that would echo and confess
The liars present of stutter and blight;
Starving organs and lecherous loins grieve in chaste
And a dry-red-skin amphibian howls wildly through the night
Seeking the grove that would abort him from peripheral excess
And ethereal caress, that burns softly within his scalp chipped tight:
But, a naked boy flushed of any rage tugs at him through the looking glass.'
Now, with a strong hand, he writes.
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