The Fool Poem by Leon Moon

Golden rings float away from his stoup,
Consummating the boredom of Metis;
Prismatic discs recite promontories of bone
Predating the Sun; - effacing the last reality of God.

Eyes roll back, in a pool without tears,
Cherishing the Sun; - The patience of Eurydice,
An anabranch of venom, transpires Dawn
To another well of piping-hot tears.

Juggler's, turlygod's of the highest order,
Jump on Jill's shoulders as a herd of orbs,
Tickling her thigh, prickling her stomach,
Leaving her cold besides buzzing flies; -

Everywhere you look is Sunrise,
The flock of crows are the freckles of Venus,
The meadow has no end, skyscrapers are carousels;
At midnight, spires enslave themselves as stars.

(There is no God to find)- The profund amusement!
Adulthood, not yet deserved; ripples too often rehearsed,
Diamond waterfalls conduct pyres for pharaohs,
The history of widows cherished until death!

Whatever the wave meant! - A green room, empty,
Except for a chair, is the only recognizable where
Indicating the odd fact that you were once human -
You knew what it meant to be alive!

The odd charm of a dying race,
Flames grazing the divinity of animals,
Exchanges and intervals, mother's returning shadows
Spread unto infinity from his wooden pipe…

— Four holes line the cress — The Fool
Dances and skips on Echo's children
Trapped in cobble jars of ancient solitude
Covering the air's motion in passing sound.

Alastor, an illumination, a flower's form,
Cries amidst the disastrous beauty of every budding storm,
The inward eye melting under coloured voices, a shining stave
Suckling the fruits of our throat — and we laugh! …

Children follow oblivion with no morality
Hypnotic to the harmony of our thoughts,
Bloated with mist, the blind man's clarity,
With hollow eyes, The Fool starves all courts! ...

A lyre of tendons and veins withholds eternity;
He grasps golden eggs, mankind's posterity,
Reposing in maternal natures of our destiny,
The melodies so blindly followed, as, or, for infinity.

I I

Golden rings float away from his stoop,
Consummating the boredom of Metis;
Prismatic discs recite promontories of bone
Predating the Sun; - effacing the last reality of God.

I write with typicality, creativity has been sucked out
Of whatever it is is trying to grow — great - another day of this,
So used to this— when will it end— when will I begin?
I'm sure you know, Fool, the last of your kind!

I I I

Relapsing into Heaven,
Tails are stuck to an Ass
Due to loneliness - perhaps? ...

I I I I

Golden rings float away from his stoup,
Consummating the boredom of Metis;
Prismatic discs recite promontories of bone
Predating the Sun; - effacing the last reality of God.