The Orphan's Voyage (Sect.1/4) Poem by Leon Moon

I

Sepulchres declare romantic archaisms,
The beast's historic famine portrays
And transpires the sword harvesting orb,
The rib-eye nursed over a black-patched cove
Churns out puffs of air from a school boy's chest;
Pale scythes breed light on brine-nailed decks,
As if a Lock convinced the Moon it was hollow,
The sky shreds the sloughing drape setting the Sun
And every shard in the headlights of a cloud.

He feeds the mouth which despises possessions
Of coldness, disguised as lozenges with veins.
The simple aspect of his withering heart
Pumps something other than itself onto shrimps and crabs;
How often do they remember being conquered?
Vaccinated aquariums camoflauge themselves
And magnify autumnical depression,
The ripened skull disguised as fruit
(Never before seen or eaten)

Reviles against it's toy-boat jaw —
Every wave compressed into siphoned silences
Resusscitates mandarin ink from blades transforming nature,
The ancient liquour of the artist's tragedy,
Reducing reflections to mere imminence,
The sight before birth is only revealed
So long as he chases the scars which mend him;
Rehearsals for an execution of memory
Hyphen the same ink for the bent-neck actor's script.

The sicophant overdressing each season
In monuments of dust,
Paved by the inevitable step of Sun,
Liberates a splash of blood
Onto pages gleeming from a tiger's tooth,
Polar Eclipsed by the carousal of chipping;
The eternal drain of pre-existence,
Set in motion by the will of confusion,
Rekindles the undealt card of ancestral loneliness.

The postman of dawn lies starving beside chimneys.
The meadow's curse is lifted from the genii's oil,
Rulers and stitch-lip rituals happily dissolve,
Jackals ignite echoes on crystal nova lakes,
The wasted lay hidden as the storm eye gravity
Practicing a retrieval of nothingness
And a performance impeccable enough
For eternity, and it's mirrored weights,
Turns into gates, gaping open the chest's sore.

Before they had veins, statues stepped on themselves; —
Hands glued to beards groomed ears to sight,
Billows claimed a past in casts of thought
Slewing flesh, worshipping the foreign seed;
Now dreams burst open the liquid from snares,
The King of fools dances to his melody's rule,
The trident is an ornamental nat basing the stage
And green comets stalk the orphan's voyage,
The last one to a land of his birth.