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WTF?

WE 5 SOULLESS SWAIN HAVE GATHERED

19 September 2013 by CTASSAULTS

We five soulless swain have gathered

In like fiber from fields gray gold and tattered

To arrogate chimerical pathos from the clouds

Quilt blank sites from pounds of ochre

 

Cause clangor among sinusoidal coats cooing breathing valley shrouds!

We five philosophes fostering phosphorescent woolgathering

Singed flesh cauterized to midnight rock coursing with iron vita-mins

To sing

Mineral blood-letting emancipating boulders to metal dusted wings

 

Let us converge our attention upon that which defies attending

We five eyes repressurizing a diffusion of interiors

With all that is was or might be

No future save for that which can’t be sewn from dilapidated regularity

The unknown reconceived as cooing alabaster seed shells

Warbling in frequencies for new ears

While behind always the sod quakes granulating annular revolutions

 

Together we gather the morsels of metamorphosis that obligate

We five stars violently whirling over a grand fulminating timepiece

recalibrating guttural notes to metonymic states of arcahic images

Strewn upon walls like our primogenitors flame, igneous ash to forehead

We take their signs to our own dens of mind

And bastardize history to set trajectory for magnified scales of ecstasy

 

Bones of giants bleached by the gold star

Sine qua non impoverished mythos dispersing mildewed seed

antdiluvian crystals resonating ubiquitous cadence

While ants labor to locate wild green gourds as sacrifice to yellow spine shakers

Dear singed rock are you friend or foe?

Rock heart dissipating superannuated heat with molten celestial degrees

Calm yourself to the cooing sizzle of alabaster seed shells

Self-strewn through snaking wind-waves of the desert sea

 

All the man made pigments are drunk back to the earth’s masonry

The crag is the keeper of the color, painting in lysergic litany

The mountain seer of the carbuncle tone holding some notes confidential

Each scarab totem a funerary of chipped spine or iron femur literacy

All the spectra spiking the eye of ol’ father time

Whom we shall put to death with our fingers and neurons touching

Despite the inertia of amaranthine linguistic arobatics

 

Now here near the succulent swan song simmering

We can see out there somewhere a storm swelling incessantly

Ebbing a solstice locus of lightning locusts and dew

Flowing through cavities of boreal leaves this celestial waterspout

levitates and descends with the aubade

Zephyr in the azure blowing down to print archetypal logos in our domestic dust

And dry up all the false pools

Leaving never a drop wasted on sweaty pits of discourse

 

We five tongue-less patriots planning patricide and sprouts of ovary

Let us take up our brushes to stir diaphanous chromos

An omen in the looming rushes of a abutting valley, we must hush to listen

Attenuating static orbs towards triangulated fortunes

She gently hastens

 

Where will this song lead us

Oh we five callow waterfalls setting roots on barren hills

To escape the siren song of terrestrial fates

The plants are all lurid in their narrations

That nothing in particular should be mentioned

Take care of us avian keepers of insectoidal instruments

Take heed stone harbingers of clear vision

We have lost out chords and require your wise stroke of evergreen vigor

To persevere within this cement incubus

Constructed to suit the saturnine fancy of modern architects

Let us rip up the blocks to let the wind whisper in

Oh we five rapt soothsayers

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