Infant Vanity (Vol.1/16)

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: April 10, 2017

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Submitted: April 10, 2017

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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 owl-eyed heart, 
Bustles and twit-woos of impetuous stoke arise! ridiculously fluffed flocks
Crowd the horizon. He has no room for them in his facade, his lonely 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, lineal protection, ancestors locked by Ouroboros belt, 
(The cotton lined egg smudged in fingerprints) was a reflection. 
He tries hatred, out of fame or feline ambiguity, for a style
And comments on his imprisonment, his sacred genuflection, 
But succumbs to what he does not to believe, and wraps himself to a tale.


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 applause 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 carcasses over the embrasures inspects
Of my rushing, and embracement 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 dignity, if the deck 
Of wood for the hungry crowd was rocking and wet, not dry in intellect. 

He had no creation, his impurities were swollen and apethetic

To any tone of expression; his arrow tip claimed the holy sore

Through knowledge of nature... His attempt was pathetic

And so was the story. By morning, he was washed ashore.

 

Suckling the breast of his mother, a bleak sage's defect to sanity

That claims no life but his, the infant holding your hand in vanity. 

 


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