Antica Lucia Poem by Leon Moon

addicted to a bygone era,
she will not partake in the customs.
headstrong, inhibiting life
she does not believe they lived like
her, majesty of sighs, the
musts and don'ts, this relic is proof
that the image is now life
I am mere coincidence striking it to
dream, I have been exiled
by agents of nature I do not believe;
I lack the heart to tell her
of oblivion she sticks upon her head

the grass is as it always was
the sky is as it always was
the clouds pass, chasing
the tails of sun & moon

lost as foray, she dances as if in a circle
in gowns that match the times,
we're no different! it seems not
to matter such splendid gaiety
is being documented on film,
a shrine and attempt to live,
the ideal wife
if it wasn't for her desire to be known.

V

she will tell you sincerely
her face is not a mask
and if it was a mask
it would only be worn
by my choosing

her life is burlesque of reminiscence, a cool-hand
surgeon who plucks out rivals of ignorance,
hence the dead stare and seriousness
when you congratulate her on her
performance. the shores of this
century are doused in this mist,
an antique eeriness,
fossilised wilderness,
the perverted fairness;
'it's our right to be deluded! we've earned it! '
are these the words of laboured souls, silenced
by their duty, and is this the long awaited prize?

The inevitable reprise…
'you would be evil to think otherwise! '

the mouths who declare these words
make them wise,
refuting ancient minds,
do not realise their words vaporise
and defy only the meaning of sunrise
and not sunrise.

V


banish the ones who know the rules
of the game.

she is perfectly pleased
nothing is achieved.

photos for the grandkids
who aren't reduced to name.

as long as she's captured
she is appeased.

V

both the artist's most treasured weapon,
Ambrosia and her hearth,
and the widow alienated by womanhood,
Summer upon his earth.

she flays the sun a polkadot dress
and offers the moon a bouquet
for the moon is a bouquet!
and adores the fact
such value is temporary.
she tells us this in a language
we cannot understand,
molten tears
cast her hand
the same tears
that stiffen your hand
and stiffen your hand to prayer.

she is luxury minus innocence
luxury of misunderstanding
the luxury of evolution
and centuries
of prostitution

raffle tickets are baptisms
each act is up for collection,
your father will tell you about it
at the fireplace (she does not question
the fact she may never have one —
or that she is allergic to fire) ,
coins in the Poor Box chatter
she fits their estimations
and does not stagger
until they have talked enough
their personal embarrassments
will not be talked of, only welcomed
with sympathy and formal attitudes of fear.

V

she will not be ridiculed by a game
of snap
but she finds comfort in conformity
when the
matter considers feeling as the fact
do not present
yourself as a lover or love to extract
these are too exact
unlike the knots of the past which lit
the wager of the hero and
the young girl's ideal from a treasure
cove of black; heavens we both lack

until the soul doesn't desert itself
in the honesty of sex
or embalm its defects
in the ego of grievance

let us have have one sole
conflict of interest, ignore the girl
who dances for the dead

she may be our relation
but investment is sickness
when charity is attention

until our soul is itself
and its stare does not split
or disintegrate space
to brag of deficit

let us find a new cave to place our bed
and a new way for god to turn his head

and the scars we bled
shatter us out the coldness of sleep.