An Old Friend, Through A Ginger Pulse Poem by Leon Moon

An old friend, through a ginger pulse
Hums nacreous negations of verse
For canals plundering music from clouds,
The still-sac robe forecasts a script to bone
(Angels yank you over their concreted meat)
While dressing bareness to a portrait's noose;
An eclipse's shaft sucks syllables from tides,
Bronzing straws for a maidens engulfed sun.

Behind the deer-eye cell knotting genesis
Oviparous insects engrave corpses on dried stone
Ribbing spines to a yolk's molten silk,
Ancient birds remember their shelves in phones,
Bridges slug across horizons drenched in harbours
Overflowing with plastic from the watered skull;
Dull projections rust outwards from empty sockets,
Hiding Cadaver hay, skulls breach and harden to dust.

Atomic whirlpools perform decay through inverted apache-shells.
Child actors soften a worm's hill under soil-bleached feet,
Throats sticky in petrol strangle frames,
The expected prosaic oblivion returns
Electrifying rubber to life
For ocean's sieved by the wing;
The heaven waits in the dissatisfaction of a hunter,
Knowing only dried leaves reflecting his snares.

The mercury jug is stale and luke-warm
Beside the heat-iron window-plane
Cracking rain on melted glass,
Chestones pulp through blood-tight tracks,
Digits set themselves natural concealment
For entrails burning in the gut;
The throbbing drummer boy drops like a fly,
The tired understudy whitens his claps with chalk.

Hour-glass saints turn rainbows into road signs,
Infants rocking in rubble cots drain blue from the sky,
Mountains crumple to prunes, each one gasps,
An old friend, through a ginger pulse
Vibrating as the coil on the tongue,
Begs for his teeth to be wiped and cracked;
This is the archaic virtue plastered on the sun,
The value burying phosphorous shapes to compost.