[another lengthy poem honed to the bone]

[mtmynd]

Demons Cry in Colors Eyes Cannot Recognize (374 words)
_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_||_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_^_

Brush that fever from
foreheads perspiring
as thoughts explode onto
~~~~~~~>nether-heather worlds,
colliding with such force
beyond simple equations...
lined up for analyses
by scientific geeks
clothed in pure white sheets.

The tumultuous thunder
ricocheting throughout the
universe beckoning its children
to sigh in pale disbelief
~~~~~~~>the utterances of graveyard gossip lay below
tombstone actors from life's broken stage.

Nails scarring the flesh off knees
submitting to images of wonderland fuck fantasies
filmed in four dimensions using day-glo colors
rinsed from rainbow patterns
observed on sunsets over Jupiter.

The claws of eagles entrenched into
the arms, wrists and fingers of eternity
grasping for one last chance
to roll the snake eyes staring in disorderly manner,
~~~~~~~>dripping from fanged teeth,
blood running parallel to vice alone
whose leathered palms executed
the marmalade maiden dressing in the catacomb
of earthly disembodiment, skewered by bamboo,
the barbecued cheeks of despair
set the maiden's soft, long blonde hair
aloft to the Sun's apathy and disuse.

Frankenspeak chortled at the view of timidity
failing to embrace the criminal's chime
from bells that locked away the humpback
from his self ascent into depravity.

Hypnotic ghost with grinning delight,
behind closed curtains, revealed its distrust
in rooms of looms full of forgotten wool
shaved from the beasts
~~~~~~~>that once rode the ancient skies,
burning scriptural promises heralding
the return of Satan's first uncle
whose disobedience claimed lives with
multiple disasters to arise on fragile landscapes
where flocks of heron were swept out to the seas
only to drown in the immobilities of pagan warfare -
~~~~~~~>tools of destruction created over fires of hell
~~~~~~~>burning brighter than multiple suns
~~~~~~~~>of roving constellations... rotating, rotating...
with lustful purposes until the time of calling
was clearly heard by false prophet's ears,
plugged with lava from exploding wisdom
forged into swords that slain the last of the
dragons from the faces of China and Japan..

Bound in silken ribbons, the feathered remains of Love
would not be seduced into the wickedness of ways,
dug out of dirt spilling off lust's one way vision,
where angular modalities wiggled left and right
over bumps created by self doubt.

( shh..the calm of rain dispels tragedy from it's wake...)

_____^_____
Cecil B. Lee