aphrodite-84
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jul 3, 2007
- Messages
- 112
The cosmic serpent, spuriously anglicized to Eugene,
was once in with the late romantic sculptress.
Sun for the Moon, Moon for the Sun;
within us a fire.
one.
Their carbon reconstitutes in the mountains,
hides bashful under a paisley skirt.
——
A little after the Beginning
Eugene sent the worm to heaven
to ask what he should do concerning the first death.
Hang the corpse in the tree; throw at it your love and hate,
your haste and patience—throw at it the mush and the marrow.
Only then.
One.
Eugene came to carry the spark in his mouth
through the universe to its spiraling center.
Before the Beginning, the chaos of a straight line;
the trees were then people, the animals were then people.
The dispatches from Eógan, donning a fiery Cross,
who hugs lengthily the Yew-stave;
its use is in measuring the continuum springing
from man into woman out of woman.
One.
With his staff he hits it on the mouth, cleaving it,
he stabs many times, the vain Moon, defacing it.
——
At every crossroads
nameless Fire
Fire from the sparking mouth
burning behind the death and life
burning behind the dead and living
shining through.
It Grinds the Soil,
imparting emptiness.
It Breaks the Air,
imparting emptiness
It Churns the Aether,
imparting emptiness.
Within it there is fire.
——
Eugene and the sculptress
have made their home on the confluence;
not too hot, not too cold.
Between the star-map and the undecorated,
between the clutter and the clutter.
Eugene the vomit of the universe.
The beginning, a name for the Sun’s comings and goings,
then the Leopard, the Lightning, a beetle.
Within it all there is fire;
the sculptress dies attempting to create a white Ant.
Eugene vomits up a straight line,
weeping regret under the old tree,
screams at the universe.
——
The firmament unwaking, Eugene shakes
his legs and waits impatiently, his weight on the Yew-stave.
From out of the latrine, incubator of his grotto,
crawls the lowest of spawn, begetting the small,
begetting the medium-sized, begetting the sizable,
begetting those with hands greater than any.
As names hung on the heavens by Eugene
or as the late sculptress’ erosion technique,
there is hammered judgment of the Moon’s scars,
the Leopard’ spots, the Lightning’s ethereal force.
One in their anger.
One with the flame.
was once in with the late romantic sculptress.
Sun for the Moon, Moon for the Sun;
within us a fire.
one.
Their carbon reconstitutes in the mountains,
hides bashful under a paisley skirt.
——
A little after the Beginning
Eugene sent the worm to heaven
to ask what he should do concerning the first death.
Hang the corpse in the tree; throw at it your love and hate,
your haste and patience—throw at it the mush and the marrow.
Only then.
One.
Eugene came to carry the spark in his mouth
through the universe to its spiraling center.
Before the Beginning, the chaos of a straight line;
the trees were then people, the animals were then people.
The dispatches from Eógan, donning a fiery Cross,
who hugs lengthily the Yew-stave;
its use is in measuring the continuum springing
from man into woman out of woman.
One.
With his staff he hits it on the mouth, cleaving it,
he stabs many times, the vain Moon, defacing it.
——
At every crossroads
nameless Fire
Fire from the sparking mouth
burning behind the death and life
burning behind the dead and living
shining through.
It Grinds the Soil,
imparting emptiness.
It Breaks the Air,
imparting emptiness
It Churns the Aether,
imparting emptiness.
Within it there is fire.
——
Eugene and the sculptress
have made their home on the confluence;
not too hot, not too cold.
Between the star-map and the undecorated,
between the clutter and the clutter.
Eugene the vomit of the universe.
The beginning, a name for the Sun’s comings and goings,
then the Leopard, the Lightning, a beetle.
Within it all there is fire;
the sculptress dies attempting to create a white Ant.
Eugene vomits up a straight line,
weeping regret under the old tree,
screams at the universe.
——
The firmament unwaking, Eugene shakes
his legs and waits impatiently, his weight on the Yew-stave.
From out of the latrine, incubator of his grotto,
crawls the lowest of spawn, begetting the small,
begetting the medium-sized, begetting the sizable,
begetting those with hands greater than any.
As names hung on the heavens by Eugene
or as the late sculptress’ erosion technique,
there is hammered judgment of the Moon’s scars,
the Leopard’ spots, the Lightning’s ethereal force.
One in their anger.
One with the flame.
