image: Tantric Sorcerer,” William Mortensen, 1932
Let no single stone in the world suppose
After breathing, pain and dying
Slowly, shileded by new cloth in well – devised battle
Oh, my lions…
March in dark blue trousers, again and again
with the nerve!, between tooth decay and the pure
hill of milled edge.
In preaching of apostles
in credulity of harlots
I arise to – day, forged within
A golden effigy.
quick to take an artistic hint
avoid the obvious and
For I am invoked by the blood, through
the flesh blood and the malignant scorpion
I dispel Irae in the heart and soothes…
I copulate with half-said thing.
For I am a dead scholar.
Sink not upon a bad of pyre, It is a flowery pain.
It’s coming down in buckets
Looks like a stigmata
My buckets runneth over.
For I am in twirl and retreat, through utter crack
I swim with yama – ubas grotesques.
When I die
I make a meal
For I tore down my images…
A weary time through confession of
Every man who speaks of me
I am a beggar of all churches
I am a Being of all trades
I am not here
I am not even – there.
May imnmutable secret shine brightly upon
our withered body:
I summon thee, Unreallity, that thee
may see when trick is gone.
By the virtue of all deaf and dumb and Lazarus,
I command thee: come forth and beguile them
with lies closed behind and orphaned moons.
Erotic to the soul, fair golden goddess