The Mad Orchid;

Her light starved love drunk singing stamen,

lulls the imperiled audience, eye by eye,
into a lullaby of perfect sleep,

trilling silken soliloquy to the Lily in the field,
a scarlet golden filigree, whose eardrums bent and yield;

whispering in the nocturnal dark
as mad lavendar Violins
turn eternal tide and spark!

down the Boulevard of the Saints of Sensuality
in a fleshy falling petal, the crystal souls masquerade;

outside of this reality
she sings again, Monet in strange charade,
on center stage, as the Plutonic Muses,

battened down
cascade in shade

against the glow of the impressionists blue wind
and paint in tracery her



astral skin,

a phosphorescent ballerina,

whose music spins the
incandescent dream cocoon,
where flitting strangers twirling tongues

in time, surrender to the certain
rhyme

of the momentary lapse of reason,
and the dreamers nodding in the Scent
of this strange theatre, don moonlit masks
to reap the tears of the heaven-sent

audience,
whose eyes,

shut closed, quiescent rise
on tides of what they wish to be;

and urgent Lunar Tranquility,
surrender in the fantasy,
to prove the moment of love’s sweet essence



in the Crowning of the Crescent.

Thanks!

Thalia's whisper;
a symphony of Luciferian neologos,
singing, trips a Bellatrix of simple emptiness,
bewildering trapezium of incandescent embers
that gallop in the white sea foam,
as the golden stallion remembers,
coiled in the flame of the Void.
On the lips of dead men,
the fibonnacci swirls
in algebraic polyphony, as the photon
of a Lunar Aria, curls
the starry breath of the unending Sea -song Sun,
sung wrong in dawns undying depths,
the dreaming death,
of God, adagio.