Leon Moon

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
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Condemned to the last subjective death,
Freed by the assessment of sorrow,
Frenzies of glass crystallise a breath
Preserving the final reign of tomorrow.
...

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
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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.
...

The Earth I find
Is the centre of my mind;
Despite infinity
It shows itself to me;
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Deprived of her depravity
She relies on for sanity,
She rips me apart so silently,
Crushed by the wind of her armed neutrality,
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we are beyond the pain of ‘I'.
Our lament is prioritised to a longing
To detonate sunrise.
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Who was god the day we set up the
trampoline?
The sunfish had not been named.
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we can laugh about it now
and welcome it as a dream
until now, my love, until now
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He will not age.
Unlike the eternal Sun.

He is the flame.
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an angel is reborn
without wings or horn
an angel is reborn.
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as poets wrote, soldiers died
seeking their own arts demise

"To conquer the unconquerable
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He is Made — A Hero —
From — Cause —
He wanted — No part of —
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A Fixation — My Deflation —
Elongates — Shadow's Harnesses —
Sole Transportation — Conflagration —
Renovates — Phosphorous Wilderness —
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floorboards creak
as you remember yourself

if you fear it
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the man without integrity loses his identity,
he belongs to another's entirety and until
reclaimed, this is the pyre of his eternity.
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Drafts of marigold, specs of rust
Nestle amongst the meadow,
Short breaths of wind
Part the slender grass, chronic with life;
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simulation of redemption
the last chance at happiness;

the inner child surrenders
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vividness
of non existent moments
wailing sheep
in the darkness
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the sky has thrown down her arms
and lent me flesh that does not scar
these funnels of wind are caskets —
the sound of trumpets is our new alarm.
...