Red-Fleshed Doll

The nameless

without number

beyond number,

fingers numbing.

A blue sun. A black sky. For All-Time.

coming to an end.

Hoping the seeds of grand, new blossoms

have been sent.

Rich germination. Soaking in

the pupal resins.

Waiting to emerge Imago,

shed skin

rise anew.

Dioscuri, inseparable even in death.

The two halves by thalamus joined.

One destroys (IS).

One is destroyed (PAST).

Saved in effigy, fascinating repository of everything

that never was.

Avec La Lune, no lord, no king.

The memory of the flesh defeats the Messiah,

The soul's mettle only tested

when all has been rejected

every line cut.

Calamity and thoughtlessness

laid out, the only escape, a severance.

An orbital rebirth

writing for all, a single hand

using language.

Threading the lines through the needles,

inscribing into the meta.

Watching the fastbreed storm

of the human undermind

grind up the spawn. Caviar mortar in-between grains of sand.

The pearl inlay of the ancient avatar

in far off and hidden lands,

Torc.

Execution without trial

Ahead with nobody.

Partial lineages denoting massive forms.

The eye drawn before it opens

the fantasy spoken

and the scarab emerges.

The sun rolls over the mountains and plains.

A god rises, rules and dies again.

The Gorgon Triad; the saviour and scourge,

curse of the many and one.

Bloodmoon tongue

no shadow at noontide

all shadow without guilt.

Open wide the fissure, stare inside.

A warmth in the wind of the mind

storms up the coast, ice weaves

pulls frost-glass onto the leaves,

slick by the Sun.

Image "The Trench" by AO Spare