I've got nothin' today, so sneak a peek through my window - not that way, you denizens of the gutter - and read some extra bad verse. If you're indeed brave enough to go on, you'll no doubt see that I certainly didn't drink from the same well of creativity as the mighty Swedes above - though it's a distinct possibility that I was listening to their CD as I wrote this - but given that it's one of my less lame pieces - I know, frightening thought, isn't it? - here you go.
Reveries of the moon
The prominent solitude wakes and leaves the room,
past the massive darkness to dream like DeQuincey,
to ruminate over locked-away confessions;
for everything counts, says the midnight gardener.
Descending a thousand fathoms, always too deep
each hour, another step further than last evening.
Planets spin and rendezvous with the stars, fixed heavens
each second drop signs once corporeal, once cold.
The sparking ceiling, an old house deserted.
I see ghosts in glazed mouths, crying out nothing
but a warning of the deceit of reason;
I can never become lost while in Carceri.
They spoke and told me if I wanted to sleep, stop.
Whispered, if i wanted to suffer, remember.
But when aurora ascends, they’ll fall nevermore
and become to me memory, the storied dead.
Iconic bodies take flight from the filthy seas
on endless stairs that overhang the depths, that end
at the brink; I cannot move, and remain unfinished.
I cry and hide away from the sun, a haven
is this maelstrom; I wait, restless, for this hollow
to be drowned out by golden sounds returning.
A vast choir, voiceless, sings of a fiery angel
bearing necessities forsaken, and now I,
in a tearless meditation, I am alive.