Ruderalis Poem by Luke J. Holt

in swath, in clock, in daisy cage, such rain

a telegram threat trills in a hoarse gust through a black door. a soft, fine truants coat affixed, no rosy, fairy curtsy of dawn.

molars of snow like metamorphic water
geodes of dead mice made of ice; my cigarettes.
Mesozoic was i on that shy day!
and curtained was my dream
to feel the shiny yellow armor on the padlock s breast
to be a red tote of dreams in the shed of gamboling, Sapphic queens.
to be of use to wet, sodden illusions
waiting in the boiled tower
standing in newsstand monochrome
mourning Jeter New Amsterdam
aging shaving captain of thrice millions!
and i am on the sheened platform
feigning my hand s grasp on the tail which gowns the ghost of conviction.
my words cages for my desires; growing animals.
smaller than god particles
a sadness whiter than Pegasus melts from ducts in a glandular triachomb waterfall.
Alas! the delving infantries,
they count clay lumps on woven carpets
they curse the longhairs and insurgents
they clobber the buzzards with muskets
and i, here, in barracks of mafia brick, russet in sun (as Olympus Mons, the lips of stolen, cradled ladies, the reflection of emergency lights seen through the dark pools of streetside rain)

so shall the peak whereupon this impervious harmony grows, like Castor stalks or four-o-clocks in May-time whimsy, like G-force vectors in Psilocybin summer up roiling cannon barrels to learn the ferris wheel and infiltrate the balmy, halogen kingdom.
with eyes of Pac-Man
shiny with climate s wheeze
the mares climb the walls of forest impossibly
invade the fair
cease to see the ground you tread
lost in sepia
storming a merry capital

and off to be left on the orange rug with the white sheet
writhing in the deserts of Sudan
begging for cranial bulletwound
*they ll use me for spare parts! *
to, by sense, disturbed, be i, a frozen explorer
to reach a fever of triage and vomit into a glad-bag of stretched pearl
to emerge as if submerged in chlorine blue and the wrinkle of walls and the shimmer of air and the familiar songs of that summer and the smell of air legal to poison with rye, to call my love on the day of her birth and to thank my guide for the directions on his.
and so an stalks devoid of need to moon a chosen path adorn the Himalayas a path of the sun
this planet a groundward comet of anarchy
if i must return
i long to fail in this youless rejoice
for in it, this sham, i could gain only the knowledge of what more my future to exist without may bring
and under shy clouds that graze me with Spring s torturous tease and heat
whimsy of stars fizzle to a blue specter
and to snap a clogged lid at a last furry tuft of incandescence.
to challenge the lamp to a wobbling, sleepy opera
to thank Gaia for her purple, orange and green
on top of the world
designed to stammer the grain, Colossus.
to scale an Alpine sleep
and wish the garlands of this heroic thread may statute the first of a vulcan morning s first enamored reel