Parnassian Heritages Poem by Leon Moon

Thinking best to regurgitate authenticity in it's highest form
The young child, Dionysus' rising scion, regressed to the first stage of thought;
Armageddon and Napoleon, seized within his throat, proposed to swarm
Against his strophe, his creation, the reunification he sought!

At the second lake of our imperial language, the english heritage,
He bowed to lavish concepts: the nonsensical, the idiotic, the waste, the moronic
And embodied the archetype he so set himself upon: and grew, bowing to the ledge
That so rightly- so rightly! - she cries- consumed his happiness; Apollo's airy tonic.

IV

Omnipresent and virtuously oviparous, I repose against gleaming psalms.
The roots of thought, one and tangled, offer melodic sentience to spring
And apathetic passion for a feature of pride to aid the universe to sing;
Ancient genuflections bind polarities upon the halves of our senses palms.

V

Motionless palates, neon or numinous, tune the harmony of our senses
And the musician in solitude is left to taste Lethe's tears of opalescent brine;
A vigil with the celestial creeping of a tragic heart, trines to mine
And I arduously suffer in infancy, learning the wisdom of tenses

VI

For Dawn's imperial temenos- sacrifices of divine oeuvres to thick Orange waist;
Time's sharpening fringe silhouettes a crest upon the fiery eye of solitude
I praise, rummaging through shame's moraine, the weeping sky of Navy brood,
Sickly parching the veins of the Sun, I light blackness unto blackness,

VII

Eternal waste! - Scythes, blossoming from dewy green, part the sight of mirrored eyes
Against the pulping lens, elucidated equivocals suckle against the crusted airy breast
And solemnly mock the plight of worth hidden within our glorified chest,
Hollowed by the omnipresent virtue of the restless child who flies;

VIII

Nocturnal vows spill from the red stars lactating unto the page
I mumble and wander not against, or to, but within proposed age;
How the four doves gleam over the skyline with their two eyes of shared sight!
The vigils are resting, reaching has liquidated, the Parnassians repose artificial light...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Senses glow and wax masks harden below the brood, children of eternity grasp breath
And our equator of senseless blood curdles oily throats beyond the wasted death.

- (Pre) lude VIIII-

'What a waste, what a fool, what a waste, what a fool! '
(Cry loves fixed by glass, the heart's flesh is opaque to a child)
Within almond's veneer, his eyes look back unto the fountain head gorged:
'What a waste, what a fool, what a waste, what a fool! '
(Cry the Sea-lines mass, our heart's flesh is opaque to a child)
From the sidelines of the soon compressed, Apollo's opposed grace is forged.

VI

Antediluvian propagations and their solemn black girls sway no more,
The heart and mind froth at the tongue of Mercurius, his teal Troth;
Mother's bitter crisp; curling spines reject the motion of the ages
And faux beards of faux boys disperse into the mist of questions
That so nobly infers unto the layers of our control, our sovereign, our poet...

Whom we shall neither seek nor praise! - -
But hum to't, our personal musical phrase...