Love Poem on Theme by Whitman


God met my three faces at a crossroad grist mill,
wind pouring from a single nostril.

If a Ghost is Holy,
it must be alone in a space devoid,
of thought,
where being is fuselage,
in a triage of acceptable loss,
in light pouring aimless,
through a cracked window kaleidoscope,
pacing the room in ambling amputations,
in gaze lowered softly,
to the cradling grave,
where Whitman and Ginsberg,
and everyone,
have finally come,
and accepted one another.

It must be love.

Will you answer my letters,
I wrote only in thought.

Legs that rise in meters,
mornings bulge with muscle,
tense and slackening,
in earthward pistons.

Teeth ache,
and smiles remain intact,
beneath filmy skins,
shedding more slowly,
than clock second hands,
unable to be watched,
for patience lack.

Purchase me on a thrift store rack,
in humble coat of untouched dust,
for a dollar and a bargain,
for a smile and a glance.

Purchase me with fingers,
gripped in my hair.

Hurt me if you have a stomach,
to suffer retaliation.

If youíve a perpetual engine of forgiveness,
somewhere behind your sunglasses,
and lipstick,
applied in a dance club bathroom mirror,
before and after saccharine alcohol shots.

Iíll see you in this herd of pilgrimage,
your face so like the others,
eyes so full of sadness,
you are an oasis,
and entirely alone.

Heart of loss to carry on toward Mecca,
always kneeling easterly,
gaze unwavering,
through the padded gauze screen,
and the noise of fucking and killing,
with impunity,
is hammering my rib cage,
with nonsense,
unquantifiable bleatings of an animal,
held by a dangling rope,
unable to test its slack.

Heart of meal and antimatter.

Heart of frozen cataract.



headdress strewn with fluted strawbone fingers,
and eye knots of dark stain mahogany,
he whose name has no relevancy.

Heart of media and ore.

Who may have been mighty,
by virtue of sex and war party sacrifice,
by virtue of carven idol,
placed at a tumorous elevation,
is remembered as an afterthought,
between an ekphrastic morning sermon,
delivered between ceremonial dunkings,
a rumor of thistles,
pushed by invidious palm,
and an afternoon of sidling,
room to room,
in the rhythmic murmur,
of largely meaningless music videos,
pedaling sideshow ego.

Heart of balsamic and wormwood.

Hands that grasp me by the machine pistol,
and tug at the roots,
where nature is rendered,
into a psychologically bruised organ,
asking for the correct conditions,
for arousal.

Heart a tremble with fragile parameters,
with lunatic hope,
that you have a Babylonian fish,
in your ear,
and something compatible,
that will make ten or fifteen minutes,
of your body heat,
sustain a comparative decade,
in lack luster plastic packaging.

Heart of tesseract and flame.

Are you God or one of my three faces?

We meet at a deadlock standstill,
each unable to push the other,
unable to warm cold limbs,
black from exposure,
unable to embrace.

Chessboard of orbital geometry,
arrows sweeping into the fathoms,
beneath your blouse and cunt,
we stand,
aching shoulders locked,
into pillories,
as decades knock a slow freight train,
beside the bed,
closet hanging with clothes,
too large,
too small,
and what currently fits,
is nothing that goes deeper,
than this,
page snow white,
iris black with impotent rage.

And I wail genius and miracles at your bored face.

And I hate nothing besides myself,
and what reminds me of me,
in you.

And I plunge the waters of ice,
and cold,
and enlightenment,
into the rent cavities,
of my ragged upturned palms.

And I pause to take a piss,
before I walk the hall,
to what duty awaits.

Whatís for dinner tonight?

What was for dinner last night?

I canít remember.

And by some power,
that pours,
from absolute nothing,
in tesseract and flame.



The God we know manifests from intent.

My God must be loneliness,
foetal posture,
in a unwombed void,
though I know,
there is something,
beyond a glass,
sitting emptied of content,
of ink,
and your mercurial tenderness,
with a childís evil,
into a peripheral blur.

Knowings I,
(necessary madness redact),
deem tertiary to function,
in this blue abyssal,
baying for insatiable suckle,
in far flung mists creeping,
like unperturbed godhead,
form a hard kernel abscess,
somewhere between longing hours,
bundled into acceptable pill form,
coated for distaste of tongue.

Read away the silence,
my voice fills up,
with experience from other.

Watch something happening,
that isnít familiar tread,
in prison hamster circles,
in pain that chisels me,
into something more symmetrical,
some white eyed bust,
we can loathe,
a bit less.

and recover,
this flesh,
praying in absentia,
that structural bone,
force and fracture.

And I stand on the wreck of mistakes,
and wonít bend,
to forge a crystalline star,
from shrapnel,
sharp in my hip flexors,
moaning with ignored complaint.

Miles are mute,
beneath this well tread mill.

Silence is a God absent,
of tenderness,
full up with Holy,

Remember something,
that had roots in happiness,
in the terror of trying,
something different,
in being somewhere,

Pain is my weakness,
that in youth,
was thought strength,
to lie in dust,
making manageable piles,
into artisanal forms,
is enough to pass an evening.

serial and number,
emptied of context,
remnants of dreams,
shoved into the corner of a sock drawer.

Observed form,
emptied of the bile,
that stills and cools,
in a pressure release mantra,
in the belly of some whale,
denying its commanded purpose.

And I am wracked by the rankling brow,
that smooths itself by virtue of wisdoms,
answer me everything,
with soothing clinical imperfection,
with hands raised on splayed knees,
eyes stilled,
in a lidded brow.

Buddha laughing with me,
always with me,
and never derisive.

Zoroaster calming winds,
with wave of palm.

Nietzsche crackling with naked madness,
dancing with lusting fire sway,
intimate to my neurology,
thundering with Celcius absolute zero,
skeletal inertial grip,
upon this misted rocket ship,
with absolute interlocking certainty,
with everything.

With the forehead eye of Zeno,
blinking at a midnight stoplight,
which blinks back,
in companionable metronome.

And I am wild misbegotten sooth,
that bleeds from healed wounds,
in the hands,
in the drawn flank,
pierced by wrought iron,
and the needs of many,
filling the coffers of few.

And I am standing,
on the shoulders of allegory,
in all this heap of welded broken,
babbling calmly in stream of memory,
in breath phantoms,
of steam,
and trans-orbital circumlocution.

We have made the calculations,
and everything checks out.

both Euclidean and Analytic,

We have a usable window.

Jupiter and Saturn aligning,
in Aquarius,
we can feel,
in tesseract and flame.

We have lift off.


Love Poem on Theme by Whitman,
o filos sou, o drakos
Written by DanielChristensen (The Fire Elemental)
Author's Note
Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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