Neka Poem by Leon Moon

Filthy remains of a petrified Dawn
Overturn the last of our dead prophets,
5 to 11 decays light to a trail
Leading to a recognisable nowhere;
The melting stop-signs cherished by witches
We call cherubs falling from maroon stars
Collects the shadows of mimicked humour,
Electrically sidelining zeals confounding the moon;
Square pavilions chop their own dread,
Uneven Edwardian passage-ways
And the hint of magic we can't quite touch
Lead us to self-corroding monuments
Burying their despair in morning.

Boring metaphors, flies which catch themselves,
Turn the sky's snout to mechanical doors
Subjectively crevescing multiple
Archeways reenacting their solitude;
An aching heart churning breath,
A rose coughing to the hum of a stem,
We catch like death the last ideal of Summer
As we condemn ourselves to constancy,
The return we pretend hasn't arrived before;
We only know the tale of this nightmare
Once we've awoken, smashed it to pieces,
Reflecting it as time, the incessent movement
Hypnotising pathetic revelation.

The return we pretend is always new
Stalks the value of our own projections,
The glimpse of an abyss slays Medusa
As we genuflect like crabs to the Sun,
Burning in waves reflected to life;
Holographic fragments under study
Previous attempts negating time
To spells made breathless by their own beauty,
Trampled above by simplicity;
The mother who'll never know she's a child
Runs from the night as if it wasn't hers,
Prays city lights will save her from the curse
Creating sounds which only rehearse.

Carousels focus to lines and then sight
Watching from a window of passing light,
Nauseating and always delicious
The first breath hardens to mould and fury;
Without an eye to judge the crooked jury
Any thump is thought to be malicious,
The flock of crows cleaning their blackness
Bury the last of despair in morning;
Purple spiders wretch over horizons
And cast the day to a sound reviving
The filthy buzzes seeking retribution
In these towns I fold to nothing,
Nothing but the irony of evolution.