Dionysus is drunk on weeds
Upon the metro pave-way
And a string of night
Like liquid carried down
The mound of his insane lips…
The missionary frog
With the Bible
Was forking out sermons
Of little songs struggling out of Eve’s coast;
Of sinuous apples in the sunset tree
Striking aloft among the Liatris punctata.
The surge of heads and limbs
Against the wind
Nude moon rapes the pleasure of silent eyes.
Dionysus, the old surreal
With evening enjoys the caress of grass
And thus how his vessel of music
Sails him down to the land of neurosis!
The is she, the Dionysian valve;
Evolved of the silver strained unicorns,
The evangelical Race
in lenient flesh and sublime face
melting in the infernal eyes
There she- the sunset tree
Amidst the aromatic herbs
Where songs for old Dionysus hurl out of her coast…
With the mast of her breasts;
awaits to be piously molested by the
rage of the sea carved horses;
Dionysus, you are drunk on weeds,
And now the Clouds too,
drunk on liters of miracles;
your maid, Race has cheated on you…
Now Clouds would claim your little songs,
the fruits of your sinuous Race!
3 comments:
Hope.
the clouds burst
and let the concrete walls weep
wishing to fall apart.
And the wails echoing
of its chest
it wished to silence.
the moss draped its cracks
absorbing hope and rain
sinking its roots deeper.
And with a resounding crash
its wish was answered
to be one with its creator.
Their eyes met for the first time
the fingers entwined like creepers
and like a lonely orchid
among the violence of the forest
hope was reborn.
Ananda, nice reply...
"Of little songs struggling out of Eve’s coast;"
is eve's wisdom borne out of pain?
this piece is as abstract is a glass of wine!
Post a Comment