sunday mornings in the fields of anhedonia
I
in the flat space of anhedonia,
glass does not shatter anymore,
pure light, the reflection of it all.
she stands in gossamer peignoir,
opening and closing the sodium gates,
be sad... be beautiful... be here now,
on a classical march to oblivion!
complacent in that second cup
of coffee’s perfect circle stain on paper notes,
darkening the persian wool geometry,
static runs through her body surrounded
by the gateway of paradise in browns and blues;
peacocks, peonies, and parrots.
in the beginning prelude collapses in a sunny chair,
thinking every creator needs a playlist,
listen a quartet for the end of time.
II
sonic vibrations does yield deep meaning,
the first architect of the first musical revolution
screamed threats. yes! alright, he must confess
the body, the fish, the bridegroom,
the word deserves its own symphony,
rioting the rite of spring and passion for cruelty.
war, music, words, nothingness, all paint by numbers.
plead guilty... the book is written in the stars,
the stars! look to the force in music of mercury
the messenger, winning the great year’s race
of loaves and fishes.
saturn falls between two on the celtic cross
of sacred navigation, they will find their way.
pleasure comes again at midnight
and middleway, pain from across the universe.
with lusty boos and hisses,
the crowd throws oranges at the orchestra,
a male voice readies crepes and juices.
yellows and reds drying from saturday night punch,
thinking every painter needs a playlist,
now wash your hands, come eat brunch.
III
mysterium unfinished flows into requiem,
where nothing remains unavenged.
by jove! there is no such thing as silence,
no emptiness of space.
rustle, cough, sneeze, listen, breathe
to the constant hum in the cochlear.
have no fear, the coming must be near,
in the flat space of anhedonia.
there is no pleasure left in that music,
no pleasure in that color or tone.
the spiralling space between light and dark,
where the terminator floats between the sphere
circling the watcher, watching the clockwork
obeying the ordinance, pass the devarim.
everyone has their second positions,
cracked in the code of protein assembly.
here he comes, the leviathan! king over the proud
leaving his glistening wake from galactic center,
here he comes on constant return! here he comes
again the destroyer of worlds,
to take the stage from the sun.
dismantling the world in an immolation scene,
he cast golden rings, they fall i ching upon the jug.
the medallion spiral splits into the jaws of dragons,
stoically she continues to read the rug.
IV
amulets and pomegranates repeat patterns,
two diamonds dance sunday afternoon,
toes never touching the hyacinth.
really, if you are in that luxury
pay it sideways, backwards, and forwards.
don’t wait for the adamastor,
supple and turbulent, to come around the horn.
engraved on that ring of men, chanting in orgy,
head into a great and glorious sunday evening
onboard the world, fishing for troubled waters.
when the cape of good hope is no longer there,
some naturally follow this imitator of adam.
so take action through the voltage gate
of the purest of pleasures.
even as eve thought, an immense shape
materialized in the room.
a storm larger than her head,
a storm connecting two dimensions!
autumnal snowcovered november
twisted in cherry blossoms and magnolias,
in one month who will remember,
it was cold but sunny?
not the world of virgins in december!
V
the bridegroom comes at midnight
with more than fair warning.
monarchs fly with the birds, insects jump, fish
out of water, ancient ancestor buried before the dinosaur.
from the arctic tropical forests
to the long darkness of morning,
sinkholes, quakes, hurricanes, those damn volcanos.
the skin runs from the fun in anhedonia,
bathed in the last therapy from the garden.
a few are lifted on personal storms
smelling of burnt sulfur, sucked into colliding dimension
through the tight triangle and ellipse.
oil of lux drips from the hazel in wakeful hastening,
feet upon crushed pearls stained in burgundy.
pearls of wine, higher and higher wine of pearls vibrate,
heads of almond blossoms in the midst of winter.
tree of life rises from this oyster juice of direct path,
climbing the almond rod hidden in a boteh thistle migraine.
hot water softens the seed coat to reveal the white embryo,
visualize hanging hearts of no matter, only energies...
as the apple in the garden heals ripening skins of tomato
blessed in onion layers, the garden grows again!
pleasuring wine from the pearl of paisley,
the pine cone melts into the amygdala.
on constant flow... so above, so below,
the mind fractals into spirals, hazey
from the flat space of anhedonia.
rise, the seeds are edible! sowing new fields
the mindseye follows musicophilia,
story within story, space within space,
the soil wants of nothing and yields and yields.
VI
the entire world dismantled
by twilight, by the end of gotterdammerung!
in the flat space of anhedonia,
a whole sunday in the almond fields.
fear the machines... chants the voice,
the first note begins to play again and again.
she screams running naked and wise,
the glass will not break
and the day does not change
on this carpet of paradise.
hear the synapse fire, on and off electric,
lightning between neurons
stuck on ones and zeros.
ripe fruit that never falls from this river,
that never reaches a sea,
harder and harder to find pleasure
this side of death,
death that claimed to be the mother of beauty.
an apocalyptic poem for orchestra,
calm yourself petite mort
stuck in this orgasm without pleasure.
surrounded by boisterous worship of the sun,
through the looking glass of her limited perspective,
anticipatory time stolen by the thief,
laugh at the work! laugh at the secret life of grief,
safe in their resilient utopia.
yes, eureka! it begins and ends in laughter,
that magical elixir but for nature.
VII
anima! anima, all over the wallpaper
deliver us through the mouth orcas,
to the park of monsters in the woods.
mutable as we are through vulgar errors,
they bound the ghost in adamantine chains.
in the fifth beginning, separating dimensions,
machine time pulls to the lodestone.
on golden ring, creating a new rose
dripping from the blood of psyche and cupid,
a harsh metallic metamorphosis.
east of the sun, west of the moon,
destroyed by our own creation,
one ego stands above this new world landscape
in this future... and it is genderless!
saved in sweet quantum entanglement,
they traveled on illusions through eons,
two souls destined to become one joined at omega.
VIII
fine and noble, these birds of the floor.
making ambiguous undulations they sink
in waves of blood, commingling
pure of ape and metal,
wrapped in twin flames, squeezed through the door.
holy water! holy water! holy water!
in a sunny chair on the otherside of sodium gates,
champagne in waterford lismore
glass breaks, and she awakens
to oranges and crepes.
strung out on the persian,
pleased and contented peignoir
laughs at the green freedom of the cockatoo
escaping from the abyssinian.
the rhinemaidens’ lament plays on repeat
sunday mornings in the almond fields of anhedonia.
