Hestia's Drunken Island Poem by Leon Moon

Spumes of eternal imminence, rainbow sliced corvettes chain breath to the shore,
Primordial pornography gleams from boiling-hot, reflecting pebbles culled
And digested through transference; - copper, emerald, soot, ripened by ‘Neptune's claw', a golden eye where no salt has lulled.

The headland chokes itself as it bends its neck,
Swooping speechless mercenaries
Upon lips of sand. The Sun here, at the deck
Tickles scaled wood, peeling opal ecstasies; -

Midnight returns from the future, sand soothes our shells and eyes,
Sages bound to wishbones silhouette the moon, churning out foam from the moon;
Ancient orphans, swaying in crude absurdity, ignite indigo fires
For a sky carving itself either to a mirror, glass, jar or balloon.

Children roam the same, grunting, tickling their blessings, avoiding the taste of salt
From waves that latch bitterness unto their skull;
— Not in Baptism, or of any holy alt,
Merely the divine depravity which is the evolution of a continent's sull.

Often, I have been called by the foliage
Where() Beelzebub is weighed;
Inside him are chests where the outline of beasts trap themselves in rage,
That of understanding, a prolonged fasting, begging for keys to be made.

Spines of temporary green arch, curl and pass
Beyond the sand's sweet verdure and into the Sea:
Waning into a fossil, salt or compass,
All just to see Hestia awake to the pain of sobriety.


She awakes to the disturbing value of her own protection; -
And moans (only the sky hears)before the presence of a Sun's imperial lore,
Her head and knees recite the shameful part of the part of genuflection,
‘Ah! it was all just a thought! ' — she gasps, subsiding in a treasure, pretending

Her island breathes no more.