The Waiter Poem by Riano Harp

Unprofitable death, stable intentions;
A transparent Earth -unstarven beauty-
Matched in normality as a mole in the galaxy;
Paupers relax in lactose vines and amylum silk,
Ravenous Moons stick in misguided perfection
—The dirt of a glass of spirit;
The unseen result of thirst shines to the Ocean
As a shaking Waiter brings shots and dishes.
The table, once a lens to insight, is bane to the smell
Of the tongue of a dagger's embrace — and chipped flints,
Stale mahogany and useless blood.
The craters are estranged in warm curiosity
-Yellow, the dirt of a worn Sun- stains match the weeks
Of pimples pregnant with pus, wines and childhood juices.

Sick familiarity, Wright visions;
Artisans scour in the viscous certainty,
Carving delicate anguish with riddance
For cemented viscera abstracts
— The shining shackles to cause;
The appendages are conspicuous in light
As the feathered Waiter builds and flies.
Mortality is the noose of limitation,
Knotting the pause for despair and phosphorus terminality,
Composers of atonality burst strings and pop corks from throats
As the epileptic choir reveal death in pulping cacophony
-Ladders of foam for the writers of gospel sorrow- the champagne is cheap and foreign.
You see through tears of rising drunkenness, you're a sprinting hunter in the fasting mirror!

Infantile will, tight hysterics;
Purged desires reason with soil busts,
Revelling in their eternity of lost navigations;
Eyelashes bathe in hollow gusts of expulsion's autonomy,
Sounds of sporadic injustice seize in swelling
— Atopics are birthed in the resting place of absolving loss;
Elastics of the moon redden with pressure in reflected obscurities
As the dusked Waiter darkens and grips.
Waists of severed systems carry rotten contrivement and blindness
As a magus retreats in the order of a sour crab,
Needles suckle fringes aroused from bloody streams
And the melting roads fill a glass urn of ostensibility
For strands of exploited illusion burning and coiling to ash,
Dispersing into spices for the taste of a tired mind.

Scorched circuits, sequenced blackness;
Apertures convulse in glorious infections
And taped arteries muffle as a colony in the background;
The helm of discovery, naivety shrouded in pride
Is in the shape of a pen pregnant with orders,
Held in the wrinkled hands of a famulus
— The New Waiter who lies and donates.