Positive Curse Poem by Leon Moon

Preconceived retaliations of an everlasting torment; -
The creation of every known lovable character
We secretly admire as the aspiration of ourselves
Is no more than the grand appeasement, a daffodil set on fire,
Striking liquid to feathers for clocks shaking off clouds;
We are immobile, unable to please ourselves.

To praise anything is suicide,
We are immune to honesty, like pines awaiting wings
And I guess I am some form of Judge, an assassin,
Finding myself in the myth of my own future history;
Since I was a child, I've stalked those magnets
Consummating love in the confusion of an ever-living
Beggar whom is no more than an effigy of necessity reaching for me
Merely because I glance away from the sky at each Equinoctial birth;

The Sun is milked of all laziness
And those who secretly - falter, falter! - narcissise ovens
Directly contract the heredity of illusion
Confounding morality which I purposely play out as a symphony
Creating the mystery of a laugh, their long lost death
Which never thinks of the other person's waking dream - Ah! ...
The Dream! ; - purple beacons show hell's last offer -
Hell's last offer! ; - it is the refuge of will, the peninsular anchoring love.

This means the most to me, only a few will understand - only, here, never to touch - I cannot die, I would not be living otherwise, for I am segregated to the most profound destiny which is to show mankind the value of its nature, irreversible irreducibility, the beholder of constantly, the potential which is all possibility - Christians called this centre Eve, Christ is a man who carries her in his heart, aching, knowing the serpent once suckled, and still does somewhere, on the bitterness of sweet liberty; this is Krishna, the spiralling gold egg, the Lord of Love, the crystalliser of waterfalls; Muhammad's promise, whoever, or whatever that may be; the cause of Buddha's suffering, his enlightenment; - it is the goal of every poet, the cost of heaven, the reason why Western psyche's unconsciously swivel around Christianity, re enacting ancient mythology not even a dormouse could withstand, philosopher's gold, every possible destination, the pattern of the universe, the woman's hand we hold before the end of time eternally ensues in a second of silence; the treasure is always divinely tragic, so far anyway (I have not shown you the True Comedy yet...) , a fleeting thought condemned to be trapped in the packaging of magic, ridiculously untouchable, always recognisable, a fleeting thought, perfect presentable; - Since I am the only man who has ever lived, and I am but a child, I will release this Orphic truth for I do not wish a biography of my life to exist.

Duplicating oblivion, every dead poet
Is an artisan of posterity;
Two distinct truths expose the rugged nature
Of themselves, the divine, amalgamating to a four, the setting
Of Eternity (and beyond... -
These are the embroiders of flesh,
The boredom of instinct, streams of self-molesting ink;
I have either only always been alone and all forms
Of heritage are just indications, witticisms, jokes for the destiny
Of a one life that can only, and only ever has, existed
And each poet was alive in my mother's womb
And not the one who guides my hand in writing,
Or that, for some reason, thought it doesn't matter, I have been bestowed
The unique opportunity to release all of humanity from their curse;
- But! - Love! - (always a shock) - I am a distant traveller,
I have two primary incarnations of lives
I distinctly remember, green zaps,
And I am gone, infiltrating space and time, laughing at myself in all ways;
The last entity of Native 21st Century
Hurls me back to where I planned this moment,
Receding through the arrival of a myth, and knowing it is truth
For the composition of truth is a bundle of lies
Woven together to an ideal of sense, what we understand to be sense;
I, I am in a palace, though Earth is not the planet
From where the fountains in my gardens leak;
Earth is my bone, waiting to decay
In splendours of space, August is the pause
Between every shape, the lion's claws
Cause sands to bleed castles;
I am all of these things, mingling attires, multiplications of words
Suspended in your mind, a simulation of morgues
Lazy as the Lover who supports the retreat
Galvanizing the rising temperature in Hypnos' premature skull;
Crunching to dust the ruby watch tower
Guiding time to the fate of a stare;
Here a woman is a carousel, a faint stair,
She is the reason for every known despair,
The penetration of Love, which is man,
Is the shadow of a beast praying to predators
Created from the anguish which moulded time
To be a necessity counting dust; though,
The ember, as in March, fizzles and weeps,
Like the poet's mother at a traditional funeral, scarring thought,
Now no more than a memory, an aspiration of wholeness.

- Not even the cliche can conjure up the will to continue...