Black Dream For Ra

I. Magic

Kiss her absinthe lips
between sips
slackened twilight love
mingling with a breath bound tight
a tense dove invitingly nested
under black corsets.

In love, their boozy blend
carries on vapors
into the half-mooned night.

Travels waft her north
into dazzling light flung forth,
for now goodbye.

But with a kiss
gone as bliss, as before
a lithe liquored gesture
she loots our nascent magic
plucks it by the core
our virtue tucked
with Tarrot and spices
spells and devices
cloaked inside
an unnoticeable windy flap.

Tails gesticulate
behind her engined broom
and stormily she sweeps out
our abandoned narrow room.

Northern lights beckoning their reach
at her noble witching heart --
we see her alight
gently purring in final flight
girded by Gothic kitchen art.


II. Labrinth

Evermore
her absence leaves us
shrinking silences
new coins upon our eyes.

We alone must fitfully decode
a billion notes
recounting all imagined votes
thrusting tardy operas
arhythmically at the in-between.

Together
making and smashing fragile heavenly bowings
while praying and stabbing and gloating
into the forgiving guts of robotic earth harmonicas.

We are made illusory loose
sharpened up on scraped-together California Green
fortified on love and juice and one more machine.

Keys on strings turn stunning atoms
aloose the air, ones and zeros everywhere
exalting out of idle things in truth played --
never twice
dedicated to emptied bottles and the obscene
in vain our quest to draw intact
her oceanic spell through haughty sieves.


III. Somlulence.

Return beneath your vanquished eyes
to inward harmony
of desolate places once beheld and blurred together
returning by stranger movement to be relived
calm and inducing, instinctive as her gaze
one last surrendering up
a returning of her ritual sequence
maternal as the sea.

Our one transpiring melody
from deep within that wholesome cage
invents a music flying of its sweet rage
untiring, unbewitched and aflutter from within
transient, unstoppably unchained
of rhythm and of whim.

To meet it in each guise
her music creates
each time a wreckage of the selves
head restuffed with shredded scores
thrown to error and wrested virtuosity
retooled for the forgetting
donation or redemption of each second breath
a massive music swells undenied
yet this one ripe with unsubstantiated death.


IV. Redemption

Ra's lips alone know
inklings of whence the music goes.

He radiates it and names it.

His million hands play millions of drums.

At his fashioning
our lost playing stands majestic and recorded
in deep buried hallways --

''A menos flores! A menos cantos!"

Our monument
a static parade, heiroglyphic history
fearing and sober and ornate
purposed sacred carvings as left to Time
pure of form and large as the Beginning
ordained as granite songs in perpetuity.

Thy name writ large in its infinite forms.