Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Moonbeams Dying

Poo-poo,

A vision fills me, sucked in on the sacred smoke that rots my lungs as the fanged hosts sing their death chants and the mountains rise up and roar their descants while the gods goad the Sun to sear the Moon to a burnt cinder, shriveling the dew-moist moonbeams until they are dusty streaks on a barren plain, for shadows of the Moon are soft and amorphous shades of ambiguity that gently stroke verdant glades where nude waifs dance in Her light as the gods strike their burnished shields and roar for the Sun to blind the moon-shadows in the sear of its glare until all fecundity is reduced to an Elysian desert where shadows are harsh and unyielding, and the break between the Sun’s glare and the black death is the blade-straight line that knows neither curve nor softness, and the Moon cracks as her blood turns to powder that falls to Earth, choking all that still has the temerity to breathe.

the profit

2 comments:

Nader Enthusiast said...

Are you feeling ok?

Case Wagenvoord said...

Feeling great! Jusst like to blow the tubes from time to time.