by the river

oh delicate nighttime of the day pressed into our eyes like soft illusion,
how the traffic stares and stops to gape at prescient notions of elaboration
on the old theme of control; control made beautiful? If only the control of the
self, we have deigned into what Jung called rare and emerged the better for it.

Golden harps in lounge restaurants and lizards louging in quick flits of tongue
conversation, these are the contrasts of life sometimes like a hurricane's calm
in the center of the eye. And the houses lift up, the moon pulls them up with
the shapes of light intersecting in the middle of the clouded sky.

How dare we, you ask, well you dared us to, and now maybe this is nothing
but not a fight, because every living thing is concerned with survival
even when they are removed from cognition of death, well, almost every living
thing, suicide is man's exception, but don't quote me on that, it comes from Camus.

Eloquent afterlife's shimmering in harp chords played stylish verbs like Masoch,
see the elvin shoes upon the woman strumming and singing, hear the elegant intonations of audible flowers, smell the musk of centuries beneath the floorboards
rising to the sky, taste the judgements of a writer asking you to listen, because there is little room for error in the bloody skies.

Words are carried in hallowed french horns the color of your neck, and sentences
interlock within your mind, hear the goddesses who spoke in terms of love bring you basking in the sunrise, oh Aphrodite, your strings are carried in interlaced words the color of veiled miasma.

There is a rusty love in this engine heart tonight that scrapes along the surface of petaled marrow, there is a musty look in these mirror eyes tonight as the conductor calls upon the scarecrow, but there's snow in the nighttime, and wind in the tinkering chimes, which says of love that there is something between truth and sin.