Overblog Suivre ce blog
Editer l'article Administration Créer mon blog

Publié par Moicani


We hide behind the masks of the Orient,
because the sullen lumbering shapes of
the western world strike fear and terror
into our limbs, and all is ungrown.
Legends we long for and legends there
are in the east of our heads.
So perchance Gods dwell unseen in the
east of the world.

The breeze from the hill journeyed through his
snowy hair like an omen.
His cloak of caution, threadbare and patterned, fell
to the moorland mire like a lamented autumn leaf.
He dribbled his thoughts like a mastiff.
“If only,” he muttered, uttering words of poetry in
magical wordways, causing violent upheavals in the
animal homesteads within earshot of his daggered lips.
The questical day had held all the promise of an artist,
but with the grey horseless cloud of the autumn
afternoon all hope of starfields revealed was lost, as
a pebble of love in the black scorched deserts of
As a last hermetic gesture, with the masts of the
day spent, the gaunt man, pure of skin but soiled
of soul, prepared his parchment scroll and crouched
like a beggar began the last task of his day — an
etching of a child, blue skinned and shapen like a
fowl of the skies, with eyes so true and hallowed
that the artition wept as he drew, and already the
quest was begun.

Proud browed he sat with his pekinese hat
Basked in the sun of the musical one.
A rope for wise men held his tail all dapper.
He jostled the pawn of pearl in his ever growing hands,
And with his handsome wand he chirped scholarly
Abroad the desolate land.
And a blanket of perfumed tailors sewed the skirts of the
In ever decreasing cycles.
One for Exaviar and the other for Ono the waterman.
The salt seeker, the carp-carved kinglett of Oceantanicas

Yon ravelling Mage,
crisp sunseanian Sage
deep acrest a mass,
a hillock of woven ash.
Tarragon seed whim is a coin
in the swim of your skin.
One pleasant fin,
O for such rippled skin,
akin to a far star,
deep abreasted like a raft,
a lantern beam cathedral
in the dungeons of my cask.
And a ship from Paladinya
yes, a pavilion of Pallacian mind,
a tower awned with lighting,
a swans wing and a dipped ring
and you swimming like my mountain,
the delved crescents of your breast
of true julip of Dodona
a league skimmed proper above the rest.
O, Our nest could hold silk stars
a taffetian nation, an elven rope,
a scarlet kerchief wept and laiden
like the galley of dead uncles’ boat.
And a brace of shining finches,
sleek necks climbing towards our sky,
four driving jewelled rivers and unmapped
just Dodona,
a whole zinc of finches,
you and I.

Camellia of the willow weep
Prancing up the hilly steep
Your evening ringlets wiggling long
All fluted
Twirling in the whirling wind of wincing summer

Sycamore of sorrow, pray I’m swallowed
in the swell of your yelling leafy breast.
My crippled bended chest is shamed
through flaming crowsfeet, soaring nouns
of norse confessions,
dark earth gremlins, rootlegged, hobbling
in the cryptess of my turned wound.
Ill-famed fair prince, steal my lightning,
stake me with steel, for my haughtiness.
Straddle my storm head with your abyss shroud.
Call me harlot.
Call me wormywordler.
Everso, but out loud.

The winter witch with her charts and fate
has half a life, but no more.
The summer saviour has a torso of gold
but a heart burnt and timefearing.
My love is a season unto herself.

To have and have not is all that I’ve got
like a count with a purse full of princes.
A bird on the wind of a pleasant stream
from the brook of the garden of senses.
And the count lived like a count, for he was
But the widow lived like a widow, and was not.

Birdling suckled on the tongue of the wiseone
who has tutored you in meadows, learned laughter
looks he bequested you. As a child you storked
on one bird of thought, but his classic hair
streaming knowledge, where like a muse it would wash
And now as a suitor, he courts you, clasped
in the rug of his love like a reindeer.
For his winding mind knows the quarrying folly of
untamed youth. Like a new stream, prey of the sun,
a child in the summer of the drought. Yet she
dotes on his old brow, pressed hot lips on the
hearts of his toes, recites in moon flooded
groves the prose of his choice. Like a voice,
she travels in love.
Like a lover, all is well.

The closet eye.
Dove skims the sky.
A silver penance,
a wrong wicked and shorn
assulted his majesty exalted.
My rams foot hexagonals on,
and O for the ice king a twitter in the storm.
The eloquence of blue juliped tents
and a crown of dark swansdown.
O Elaina, child soothsayer,
cheetah sleeper,
laden legs like a god —
a fools everglade like the seasons slave,
and your quince everlasting horn-lamp
made of wheat
at your tiny rivered feet.

Tall as the truth the creature coughed in the clouds,
feeding on mountain tips and the rare winged eagle lords
that journeyed higher than the memory of man. It’s claw,
caked in mist and wishes, ripped at a pillar of fear
masoned long ago by terrible forgotten Titans, to
prevent the dreams of man from floating in the valleys
of the diamond.
It’s eyes, like women and sand, shifted ever searching
for the perilous horn of plenty. A foolish colossus
it looked, ragged and unworshipped. Solitary on the
roof of the world, a remaining nightmare in a plateau
of fair thought.
It moaned and clumsily spewed spells of fear on the
storm stallions grazing in the temple of pearls. And
the years danced on. And all that moves returns to
stone, eventually.

The vanquished Sun
Is like the withered yolk
Of a weathered egg.

I crave a slave
A carrion man
All rigid like a tearfull elm
I crave for me my rhyming man
All horsey and Voltaire
With a river in his hair
And a forelock bright as brass
In the dancing steep emotion of his glance
A travelled Duke of skyvieled sickness
With the horn of Ishmal gravelled in his plotting hand
Grand, grand, grand O prawn of time
One wish to soothe me
One spake to rhyme.

A star of youth was spawned one day
Born on the horses of the sleigh.
In a green of elm, the sky, outstretched
spake, ‘Drink deep O twinkler in my lake’.
For a wish you’ll be burdened to coronet
on your dome, like a will o’ the wisp all
a tender, you’ll surrender in the deep
foamy kitchens of the muse and one word
they will say and like a pelican and yellow
amethyst they bless long your stay in
the abbey blue, but in glittered hue you wept
for summers’ limbs upon the pleasant turf and
your shields of ice in the chilly times,
creamed in grey wolfs’ hair, you stride your
windy stair, you’ll miss no cathedral bed,
for you dote on the treasure in the chest of
your head.

With the girdle of life
unadorned on my brow
my eye’s appetite is relieved
with starry sights and mellow wonders.
Yet with a girdle mammoth in starfields
and moontrees
my heart’s eye is dull and my soul
ever hungry.

The Fluted Floors of Dagamoor

The fluted floors of Dagamoor.
A sovereign schemed and prismed,
a sly extended mushroomed hand
dead from the wars of Faragadan.
The ground a muted mat of twigs,
that sing upon clouds,
grand canyonised through lack of faith
its chests of rare curiosity.
A medallion head in casted lead
brought from the mines of Hadrian,
by a lame young man with a stammering lip
and a hip which swung with leprosy.
Woe, his falling brow ceased to shimmer at least,
but his deep earth loves
were for cold earthmined stone.

The silver clothen Saracen and the pheasant and the oriole
sailed on sandel feet in the dagger of the Dagyor heat,
to a rippling shore where one ivory core of apple,
nibbled and spelled upon, lay.
The dark fleshed lord bowed his silk embroidered caplett
lower than the Earth, deeper curved than the bend of
And with fingers oiled and spiked, the old fruit he
clutched. And his purple sound serpent mumbled blacklore
to appease all thats lurking and hidden.
And then the quake came, like a ship it rode the vast of
The Saracen prince, his finery finished, sunk — burrowed
like a mole with the night madness. The core bore wings
and it’s strong whiteness shimmered long.
Then O the wind it ate an unsaddleable horse with wings
of such girth as to dwarf the eagle lord. And the steed
steered the stars and bade the quaking birds to follow.
And on mounting the wind they too grew like young
flew like laughing words and on their starkest flight
at a height immense, they reached the waters of the world
and ploughed like farmers the waves of power.
And all creatures welcomed them and adorned them with
flowers of faith.

A Baul so small
His hooded eye a night hawk
Swooping over my parched and weary limbs
The gardens of my five-toed stalking stilts
Are dried like the fruit of the hag.
His bell of topaz
Was pirouetted upon with whirls of distant history
And the wonderous wisdom of his tungstone forefathers.
In just one of the shaded gulleys of his ravining cheek,
Sleek and unblemished, were hung bold enfolding
raiments of scroll.
A scribbled etching of the crystallined phail
Containing my first tear river given in love.
Shadowed in the mansions of dusk
The wanderer, clad in the cloak of the hills,
Mounted his shimmering pony and threw me a dagger,
A tableaux of a manger quill painted on the hilt,
And set in the bosom of the blade
A tiny outstreched hand
All small and topaz.

A hedgehog, large as a man, husked along behind me
on that tunnel night.
It’s shape, like a lover, roiling and certain in
the caress of love.
It’s eyes, muddy like a river, brown as broth,
sad and aged like a liver leaving life.
And as I, panting like a tournament, overcame the
tortures of my towering flight, he burrowed, like
moley, into the morbid wall and vanished. A ghost
of the heart, sweet and hunched like an actor. And
even on leaving the yoke of fear on some other man’s
shoulders, I was saddened at hedge’s passing

A frozen bird
in the stretching sand
clutched like a warrior
for my staken white hand.
But an ant like an eagle
on wings webbed with faith
swooped like a summer storm
and slew the dark pearl of hate
and vanished like a friend would.

My period of birdlings,
a wish upon a word
rolling as the landscape of laughter
that’s hidden in your throaty cuff
of silks and sacking.
The curb of your delicate neck,
pure vision of wiseness.
A bird heard once
of a shallow hearted sage,
who wagers all fellows to out-riddle him.
So the lenient linnet, learned and lored
gently perched on the brim
of his flashing morning satin hood,
and uttered one phrase, a parable of taste,
and the sage sank from wisdomanic view,
like a pistoled pike.
And the countryside was young once more,
for the linnet resumed it’s natural shape
as a gutter dog,
black and white like the proverb.

Beamed like a quaking ship’s mast.
Handsome like a stage coach, robed in thunder brown.
One yellow negro eye scans the failing hand
and a host of theatricals
baubled and jingly,
jestered their tumbling way in
peuce frock-coats and plumed hats,
pierced with crockery.
And fallen young bucks courting
the beautiful Bountise,
manboy, brother of Rossenos,
the sheik eyed,
and tamed the timid women walk,
horse hair, flaxen, oaten torn skirts
and lead planken awful legs veined and blue,
dribbled like a fleeing night
all dripping and wrung of dawn sun.
And the pastel hotel delled and eclipsed
trenched in cobbled stone moats of goat toeways.
And a sparrow limped all little and golden
a broken wing tucked nowhere
except round the blizzard north wind.
All dark town, one tumbled river clown,
one on horseback, now horse led.
His drunk skull painted and pink
clowning, bruised in the chalking gutter.
The horse walks, the clown screams,
a bargee foot caught in the dense root
of a lampost
and blood gushed from a locket socket
and the harley head breathes no more timid
bitter air.
The nodding horse backsteps, sniffs the air

sings for blood, bolts like a wave
and onelegged the rancid death carcass clown
mysteries the cobbled watery highways
and a gendarme bellows like a cuckold bull.
Dipped in circus red, the evening sparrow
all sodden and clawed hops homeward,
with a sword heart and a rained memory
for prison life.
Could Hamlet have known.
Ah sweet violins whisper deep sweeps,
in August, for Columbine
and her racked prism rhyme is a spell
bound with elves love of summer.

Falcon Queen of distraught youths beam
A laughing mask grilled with chance and sun-bleached hay
One Spanish day in a sailor way
You spoke volumns, you clutched at starlings wings
You nodded gently
And me gallantly torching the way
In my gull-gashed way, stripped bleeding reed dream.
Bullrush orphan of the belled tolling night
I wish you Earth’s rich moss fulfillment
In your bluebell chiming plight.

My head I hold to the four winds.
My being, in it’s fullness, as a banner afire with
the rays of life’s light, I decant in a milky jar
to be drunk by the living breeze, to be ridden by
the rider of the muse to a heaven of growing pure
ivory, breeze born and reeling in the joyous poem of
A house of beastly contentment, yet with heads
caped in the knowledge of love, the lace dublets of
wisdom and foundations of eagles ever alert and
mighty, mother eyed, in compassion and feeling
father in the heavy horned harness of state.
My pride I hold upon a jet shield, high in the
domain of the wind.
My folly as a fool, leather-eared and asslike in
the molten paths of my conceit. A leper is healthier
than myself, if cleanliness of soul is a flesh
My ears are bangled with tangling ivys sprung
from the fiery downs of falsehood.
For my eyes, hooded and beaten by the years are
eaten by the vulture of mythology.
My skull juice, curdled like an overripe cheese
reeking and ill in my castle of destiny.
Like a pomegranite am I.
Oh, wind ones with your shallow cares for the
darkened heart, in your rolling robes of chivallry,
which way will your guillotine gaze fall.

A lily in my mouth
White dawnlips pierced with rose thorn.
A stake of bone escarpes the dingle-stone
Of the throne of my stoat-grown-goat white tusks
all uneven and stormy,
like a swollen lake bearing sandlewood barges
Disregarding ears and jadely earrings
Blessed by priestly Celtic woadmen
With pearly dancing fingers
Gloved on bones of silver dusk runes
Of sad wood wine
And the master builder prances like a puppeteers Mandala
While the mighty oakmen linger
Sobbing cruely on the acorns
Giving vapours of Earth future
To the gypsied hord from Elruna

Quilted head and quested breast
albino eyes seek the lusted chest.
A Quinn of size with tempest eyes,
forsooth he screamed, the peach flies.
And see the lid of darkened sky
the eagle fails, the fleet-winged dies.
A fruit of fur, a carnibor
as tall as Thor, the mysticor.
A paean of fire
leapt steel clad from the cove
all torn and bleached in devil mauve.
I aimed my barb like the dawning wave
and wrote a clef spear around the stave.
And a hand of black topaz hid on a steed
of wondrous dimensions, on storks it could feed.
And down from the bowels of the choking gold cave
rode the sleeping prince regent and the ore rivers of nave.
But my lusted tense raven eclipsed by the bay
roved a rune of distraction to the mute in the hay.
Then the shook ‘rik sicked gospels,
usurped from the wind,
and all was forgiven and the tawny king sprung.

Daughters of love unite.
Encircle our woody globe
and blow at the smouldering hearts of our youth,
as if it were Earths’ birthday.
And with the coming of the sweet breath,
the seeds in the garden of all hearts
will flower immense,
and such flames licking and long,
will be sighted upon our lands,
that it will seem to the highborn
that the Earth has hatched anew.
For golden would be the flame.
And gold is the colour of the maturity of Man.
Radema flight flower,
hour shower of my wealth,
shifted ‘pon wrought wood cargoes
of wiley islets and dew dribbled
tombed caress, the daughtered dress,
a glow spiralled all foggy,
elled for seven cubits of burrow mint,
sucked tournament bronze dipping tree waif,
hammered like the North Star
on the swelling beach of Bethodere.
Dance you devilled dale of green,
tolled and witching in the flight of wishing
for the bells of winter stark
and cannoned under the crunched
willet wonder of her lancing smile.
O locust weariness swelled ‘pon Parnasus high hill
all splendid and love green. Willow head of willow
woods and wept wells of wooded willows. Clammy
summer scorched with lost summer taunt kiss. Hot
lips over Pacific seas of turtle tips scorned by
sabre corals where dead galleys sleep.
O weary safe near wooded dell tell to all the winters
tale of its scorcered pavilion and it’s lassoed
launch and my fat whipped Egyptian and his vast
vat paunch and the Corsican curse which I have
born through my twenty fruittree years of my
wizardesque seasons dense through sandlewood
mansions which that Maltese man leases to my hawk-
heeled zinc eyed guardian.
Sluice-gate sage ride me with rucksack and assorted wares
and garlanded hair to a larger hand.
A god filled sky and a vanquished eye, a Quebecian hall
girded ivory tall and my dear Peruvian dog and
my first love hacked log and some new pure white
lies and eight blind god cat eyes and a hide corked
wine jug with a squirrel child to love and a tall
gallow shouldered saviour of sovereign repute to
teach me manners and how not to cast black sun on
Hannah (my Savana one).

As a listener he sits,
a lizard of light,
crawling the bark of his beard
morn white.
A winter suit of lily’s,
dry yet touched by the dew of the sky.
In it’s expanse, a lone bird
journeyed sullen and determined like a miner.
A jackdaw it seemed, but I doubted.
My learning ring splintered my nights
into wild dark days
weary and eerie
like the foggy hearted forests of Skullan.
It seemed to my living eye
that the maidens watery hand
held a stoat,
but the light had failed and the rainy hew
of the lord of night veiled the land
like a vision.
And I drunk deep of his goblet of blood
like a werehare, and the youth of the dawn
punished me as a thief,
racking me in pillorys of beauty,
dense and pastoral, sweet and fragrant.
Rivers of scented poems travelled
the misty roadways of my crooked nose
and like the vague rogue that I am
I smelt and felt the hem of dawns raiment
with the intensity of a brock
and lo true friends
my all was forgiven.

The chariots diminish high on the chartered hills
of science.
One shadow, hairless and crooked, crouched at the
crossroads leaning only on half remembered loves
of his youth and an oaken spent staff of debatable
Seated he watched the skull of the sky, quiet as a
new brook, it’s banks virgin to the foul man. Stars
he measured and cats he slept with, curled in the
arms of night, pillowed on the breast of the
meadow like a babe. But such wisdom and liquid
knowledge tricked down the small falls of his head
as have not been witnessed almost since the beginnings
of stars.
And he’d talk with you and feel no discontentment and
he’d befriend you if you had the wits of a cat and
he’d love you no matter what your fame.
For seated he is a temple, to crawl to, in your mornings
of despair. But standing, alas, no eyes yet born
could accommodate such beauty of features made by the
ancient masters of the maze. Yet of course he knows
it, and remains seated, humbled and exposed until
the dawn of the Procession when all will be
Eminesque head of Tallow waters
Living deep hidden in my masters quarters —
Come you sweet mouse one
Sleep near June’s bed
And comfort our protector
From his wet churning ocean head.

A diggered dog I saw, scorned for his pleasantry’s
and jostled by passing strangers in coarse attire.
His eyes saw humbly and the castle’s saint reared dark
as a forest into his canine vision and kicked with
the palm of his hunting boot, inches into the wagglers
face. And in the raining skys of the afternoon, the
pup, shaken and withered, orphan, mute and savaged
was cupped low within the hand of the meadows and
lost to the hollow eyes of the village men.
Grew great and mastiff and became a god, worshipped
and worried by cropcries and selfish eyes, yet ruled
strong and true and compassionate, like a saint,

Liquid fleeting music
into the murky streams of time
hollowed in a gulf
of cyprus grove grown slender vine
a pounced moon palely harkens
to the baying of a girl
with an oracle juiced peuce lip
building verbs from windydale.
And you O old thing masked and wheeling
on the pinnacles of night
a hooded hollowed rover,
trundling caskets drunk with light.
And a virgin slaying hide hand
tipped with tongs of tempered steel
riding randy to the beamed lodge-house
robbers’ sanctuary
a goose to steal
you charlatan thundereyes

The hawk of death
the widow fears most
along the islets of the river’s coast
In her house, weak in magic,
the blue wells ’neath her eyes,
muddy and rich, vomit rabbits,
milk white and bare
with artists ears but scoundrels hearts
tattooed and thumping in the pale limpit light
of the pit of angels.
A torso of tin,
dull and knotted, lay sweating
by the bed of the wilted widow.
But her pastures were barren and untilled,
and the illness of Ashemoc dredged her heart
and left her an eyesore
in a century of nymphetic connoisseurs

O nosediving eaglet stormed on a mountain
of glass, pear-rich in havens of torrential
wisdom and baroque melodys upon awful bursting
clouds of hawk blood.
Slip slip skip my fruit friend, iron all
blue veins into compressed cans of random air
Sink sink think on an ancient hill, forms from
craven hawk hulks, leftovers from the lost
skull of Atlantis.
See see be a fly man winged and sung,
launched upon a wave of shivering gull foam.
Beard beard reared upon a horse house east of the
Arcadian Gulf near Puma, reclosed in my
dead Esters’ automatic stage coach.
Crown crown a sun down gown, burdened with
figs of Esters’ mad hairwishes and rock in
Dad’s lamented twisted well of waterless fire
tongued anguish.
And O the storm of evening on the gull reddened
sky is rocks like my Atlantic vision near the
ravishing brow.
And Demeter loves me most because I of all men
can alter bread to toast

Commenter cet article