Infant Vanity: Folio 1

Reads: 96  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: April 10, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 10, 2017



Eyes of frangible glass, skin weaved from shards. 

As if concatenated to make his father proud, 

He fashions his strut of memory, the dull cards 

Of a suit that has creased from praying out loud. 

His pale thighs and Sun-lined locks

Bind the conspiratoring ladies to his heart, 

Bustling whispers of impetuous stokes, ridiculously fluffed flocks,

He has no place for them in his facade, the solitutde of his art. 

He has honed his throat to a scithe, a bloody carousel

Of inundations that rock to his contempt and melt 

Into tiny statues of war for his design of love, the artless hell. 

His hair, ancestorial safety, ancestors locked by Ouroborous belt,

(The egg of which was smudged in fingerprints) was a reflection. 

He tries hatred, out of fame or curiousity, for a style

And he often comments on his imprisonment, his sacred genuflection, 

But succumbs to what he does not to believe, and wraps himself pale. 


The hazlenut veneers run as streams and instigate like Oceans, 

His small bare-feet are coated in light, then dark, skins of brown; 

He is slowly consumed by what once breathed, and begins to drown

To the shallowest cocoon of the Sea, enamoured by hollow tins. 

The notes and scripts, (sacred, oh!-holy) tatter his bedroom floor, 

Scarring the Ocean. Flickers of black squirm like mist within wood, 

In war it should bleed from the tip of’t, and the oil lamp of blood

Lights up all sounds, from the gargling throat of red, black thaw

And the tickling buzzes that stretch from the waves shrivel his tongue 

To retell tales of the Ocean, the strophe’s of myth and action, 

That line upon his lips like four breasted cannons, and read like a song

‘Had I renounced myself to the solitude of childhood fraction

At an age told so old, had I known the frustrated reason 

That finds only woe, and no expressed divinity, in blood, 

I would not idly serve as an aplause for Pan and his treason 

Of winds that glisten, like flames, spears of glass and ice. 


The hermit hums the strophe's so pious to his youth and vice

In a cave, made organic through tunnels, tenches, knowledge, 

Smooth pebbles and wasted brands of our memories pledge

Archaic to the pulse. Honed, from Hestia’s redemption, like a knee

Genuflecting to our regressive ancestors, the waves of the Sea

Illuminate orchestrated shores (storms are a genre of their own!)

Each mountain-top should melt again, the musical of fresh smoke,

Where the musician is hidden in justice and the ships hull’s bone,

Is lit by the masts of vulnerable intellect. (Bitter retirement) I stoke,

Unfurling visions of the glistening pearls and globe-cut fish

That swim on the crust of my finger, another balanced dish.


Leaves, plump and runny with red wine 

Eyes, glazed in Ares vision and thick silence

Seduce my spring and I into a cloud of brine.

I suck the disease from fresh-cut grass, and dense

Flowers that hum to the buzz of purple scaled bees;

Carnal tower’s gloom over the sniffling insects

And, as the purple weight of a senseless God, 

Pour carcusses over the embrasures inspects

Of my rushing, and embracemnt of maya laud. 


I am the eternal child who paces with a noose around his neck 

And worries if the crowd will shame themselves for their respect.’

His hands would be red, the failed attempt of diginity, if the deck 

Of wood infront of the hungry crowd was wet, not dry in intellect. 


But the man shall be born, the man who hangs his head to the Sun. 

© Copyright 2018 Manx. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Religion and Spirituality Poems