Puer Aeternus Poem by Leon Moon

The giver of the name of Gods
Extracts Dawn
To remain younger for today.
Though the willow spills shadow
And her beauty is led astray
The giver of the name of Gods
Has lent his lover
To the writer of a play.

There is no form uglier
Than a young boy trapped inside
A dead man who has no home,
Convinced by his own headline
Rotten feet are wings
And only his truth learns to touch,
Knocking a secret from this old truth
Reserves him the right to devour you as reflection.

In vain he isolated his virtues
And sent the lady's back from his doom
Despite it being one's sole desire
To perish within the self-made womb;
He could be an entirely new man
Had he not hung himself to heaven
And split his wingspan
From the sun uncovered in his room.

This is an apparition that operates
Death's noble sovereignty
That infect the basilicas of his mind,
A tightening of the limitlessness
Where all but thought is opaque
And his sleepiness is permission
To turn his mind cannibalistic,
It feasts on its own dimension.

The giver of the name of Gods
Cannot be born
For his heart is pure discovery
Who's body is like that of memory
Unearthed in an inward way;
His death is an ode to posterity
And his grave is a rhythm you fashion
Worn to an identical contrary.

Hurry! Hurry! There's still time to save!
Less opportunity is your bane?
Orphaned by necessity
And fluent only in your game
You will be swept by the first draft
Storming the shore of fame,
Stern as the railing posts
That glitter susceptible as ever.

He stands unmoved
His defiant and fierce posture
That became a model for kings
Baldwin and Julius alike
Is now sunken in the centre
An inconvenient ornament,
A heart locked in torment
For the currents wash only cement.

His friends pay extra for him
And tip their feet into his hat
As they remind him of his dreams
Before he became an artefact
But they chalk it up to childhood
That sacred tincture
He tried his best to prove and capture,
The venomous sweetness of no future.

The giver of the name of Gods
Feeds off the forlorn
And in return redeems the enemy,
The undertaker who sets odds
On paper fleeing reality
Exchanging a remedy to love
Themselves amidst new hostility
Until both cannot speak.

'It is better to drown the world in silence
Than flood yourself with words'
This would set his vespers
And channel the only audience
He cared to prove his soul in,
He absorbs without interrogation
As bitterness is the discreet agent
Binding age within bereavement.

And his servile tactic
Is now the main entrapment
For his devotion is non detachment
But there is no embodiment to moment;
Clouds are metallic bars
That derail his eyes and pay his wage
And he lusts for the bard of time
Who scorns him with forgetfulness and tide.

Despite rushing, he's ever late
Through impatient fruitfulness
He shelters unique abandonment
And the discreet misery
Gleaming like honey from his cheeks
Contains the recipe for atonement
That his own soul can't seek
And here is found a saviour.

The giver of the name of Gods
Must morn
And rot at the expense of love
As his wounds were woven
In the cocoon left broken,
Sprung open the day before judgment day;
He does not complain his work was stolen
When he is accused of copying the greats.

The right to sainthood taken away
And his royal estate dissolved
He is still susceptible to ambush
Even on a blank slate,
Keeping his wits at bay
Despite no prize for resistance
He refuses to be repaid by evil that ensures his legacy.
Mundane interior of first breath reminiscence perfectly flays.

A chandelier for the seer
Who secretly devours the emperor,
Sentenced to the punishment
Of being his own government;
He cannot forget himself in food
His focus has been over brewed
And he demands of himself the world
Which will fit the width of his mood.

He is a merger of ascendancies
Of two souls who seek impunity,
He anticipates the third in unity
And so isolates his community;
Barred from the vault of riches
And now immune to poverty
He declares war on all things past
In order to find which self in himself will last.

The giver of the name of Gods
Receives not
The courier of redundancy
Despite the possibility
He cannot devour his dogs
Or bare the burden of responsibility
Of sewing his parents heaven
In unmasked eternity.

But he possesses the antidote!
And cannot part from it; he synthesised
The ancient seed from a universal mystery
And forged a very real reality
As early as Rimbaud and Chatterton
But each belonged to a more vicious world
And so he opted for praise as suicide
And transfigured pride before his deathbed.

Essences strung without directive
Stung him, layers of the collective vault
That twists ghosts into clay
But not clay into dust.
There is no concept of waking
Amidst feeders of the immortal procession
Who prey on blackmailed ecstasy,
The possession lost in revolt.

He sanctified his vulnerability by disjoining luxury
From the lodge of groundless divinity
Acedia became an ally and paraded as the sunrise
Belonging to the cold lightning of day
For a short time he reasoned with his faltered disguise
But soon mould fought to be glorified
And the skin wrapped within became mesmerised
And trivialised, the precious fortune neutralised.

The giver of the name of gods
Devotes
The years he wasted in satiation
To the stream of isolation
That he never let stay stranded by his side,
Now the changeless room awaits its reprise;
Within each cycle a unique presence penetrates
And preserves its place amidst the muted water face.

Despite dissecting the flock
And exposing the tower where kairos cuts his clock
He could not account for his own creation
And so abdicated his ideal position
That fed off virtuous deceit
For all nations would bow to him
And his joy would be a joy
That bound no goodness in meat.

In his track he preserves the righteous
But the public has no sympathy
For the weight of his epiphany's
Since the lack of response equates to wrong;
Tormented by false martyrs, mistranslating symbol
The dream of understanding has fled,
He is blessed to live where the waters meet
The final resting place before sleep.

Since no poet is worth reading until they're dead
It is best to quit whilst one's ahead
And water the skull where flowers grow
Where ice is stretched and bled;
For the current state is tied in word
And the position, influx, hand in which they're said
Is a simple matter of delivery.
There is no life behind the life they spread.

The giver of the name of Gods
Particular to a fault
Extorts insurrection in perfection
So his pension stays afloat,
There is no image capable
Of infusing spirit to nerve
For experience is dependant on loss
And now his carriage must move.

It is the last night before he gives himself over
To the robotic culture of the goddess
He set himself to cure, for a secret envy
That had no definition outside the body
Has languished his benefactor into a parasite
There is no worth to be studied
Or compacted in frail comparisons against the almighty,
It must be savoured no man is the same age.

The target he shoots himself with needs restoration
For it is akin to the one prior to the revelation
That founded the golden years, heaven's first remembrance;
Hung over, much less precious
And much more older, he blows a bubble
To counteract his stubble
And enacts the mind he cannot reach,
Giving meaning to numbers that have no seed.

Eagerness is his sickness
And he is frightened by his own peering
Stalking room to room, hunting for tune
That has no instrument for thought;
He's acquired a comfortable way of
Misunderstanding himself, much more reusable
And sturdy than before, that stemmed a trend,
The opposite strength to strength he adored.

The giver of the name of gods
Allots his lot
To children of the clot
And he refuses his mother's inheritance
For she lost her home in him
In a brother's search for liability;
The personal universe
Stolen into solitude.

His safety blanket, solitary confinement
And pattern of stars has lost movement
His chastity and chastised benevolence
Is sterile and ignoble but slits unmoved,
He recreates himself in the eye of a zoetrope
And flickers alongside the boats who's name
Will shed no storyline, still an ideal archetype
Of rebirth, an idol of youth respected without history.

The vows must be rewritten and repeated
And letters sent to the mistreated
Love he let incase his love
His first love who's last step to completion
Relied on one last simple meeting
But he pictured himself devoured
And sought recompense with the defeated,
The eye engulfing presence through a photograph.

Marriage is a corner, posing as a sphere
In the dual carriage way of midnight
And implicit in this connection
Is man's earth-bound redemption;
An empire weaves its manner
In the descent up this ladder,
He must restore the deadline
By claiming it separate from the mind.

The giver of the name of Gods
Extracts Dawn
And lends her hand out to follow.
Though this spring is shallow
The fern still rings green,
The giver of the name of Gods
Seeks a new twin
To devour her worldly light.

I I

The giver of the name of Gods
Fuses flesh to myth
Less his foot is cut to stone.
It has always sang parousia.
First born amongst the dead.
The giver of the names of God
Made in man
Through God in God only God.

His legs have outgrown his bed
And the starved child
Receives his marching orders.
His boyhood genius will not be televised
At best, preserved in word
In a future that has no use for him.
The matrix of nature's stainless architecture
Must be dedicated to a new face and voice.

But the new bust be within him
And it will be no graven image
For it will bare only one outside;
The misled make gods from agents of god
And do not see the living heart
From which faces struck in eternal function
Are apart, beating into blood,
Beating through bone and sun.

Under the dying sun there is no luxury to suffer
Through the past, a suspension excludes
Old defiances and dialectic impulsivity refutes
The truth we held ourselves at mercy to —
The charades collapse in the light's relapse
From the darkness it constructed to collapse
And we greet the loves that guided extinction
And drove water from drain to deadline.

The giver of the name of gods
Impregnates darkness
Until it is an amber ever glade
That runs through tree and desk
Satisfied, this form is his end-prize
The giver of the name of gods
Is made for man
Through God in God only God.

He lays no claim to ownership
And resulting stewardship of apophatic insurrection,
Wielding destiny in a lapping stream
Diverging posterity, he erects an anniversary
For the gilded thread that flays freedom
In a carriage that begets the universe
And strips reality from its dream
Til silence sings Hail Mary's instead of Happy Birthdays.

He scatters indulgences onto princes
Who lie in the soil of his nerves
And die in the birth canal of his verse.
In this eyes of an icon he strikes dead
The idols that steer his peers
Into the drunk infinitude of the Self
Which without God is unreachable,
The impermeable fortress encased in void.

The more a poet understands
The more he has gratitude
For the spirit striking his words
Like matches into the darkness,
It is a privilege for the meaningless
To stand naked amidst the endless
Truth that carves soul to word.
The will of Logos incarnate.

The giver of the name of Gods
Fuses flesh to myth
Less his foot is cut to stone.
It has always sang parousia.
First born amongst the dead.
The giver of the names of God
Made to man
Through God in God only God.