Arthur Spota
The Cake in My Handkerchief Has Grey Skin for the Birds, with Richard Dotson
The cake in my handkerchief has grey skin for the birds
and in a terrible stroke, passes like liquid into air,
stripping the wind of vexing platinum and pulsating wax.
When revealed, the wanton upbringing of a haunted Congo
restlessly grasps at my throat as the games of another
barely pass through earth’s bladder.
The happy, beautiful man bridged by so little content
bundles with cunning women who raffle us in the backstreet gutters
that are reflections of a lonely, hard sky.
The sweltering heat swallows light patterns
of antler depth and dovetail tongue
Where Gravity is yellow, Twilight, silver like stone.
Gravity’s magnitude,
Soul
In fact,
Itself
The Room filled her to my dimensions
Her contours are torch songs repeatedly played through my dreams
in a shelter of memoirs languidly observing lanterns of our years.
The ghosts between the racket of her line are threshed endlessly,
Each refused decibel rested
between Arch Jones blue and Virgo horticulturists
leering over a wondrous leap to incipience.
Uncle was a corpse with eight tin wings, tender in the spare room upstairs.
His partially blind India bride optically devours sub-atomic martyrs,
Nine who churn with an exceptional ruse.
Frantic seashore girls drench marlins, prying blue near wings silver onyx.
Over in the window where her reflection used to be, a girl is playing with spikes,
chanting, “This is the answer” past the line of a night of great frustration.
She weaves like a baby in the tiny missionary kitchen
Pretty deserving of pajamas and astonished at regular intervals.
The hot touch of the citrus gives stone a frantic Pisces sheen
that reflects a woman’s eight-starred aqueous gown.
The blip you swore was blue has spawned angel ciphers
of badly tarnished reddish blues:
In this interrupted dream a cinema played itself
In some distant time
I spoke
Only I was met with a silence
Where I have seen A
Yes, A is the heart dreaming in whirls of clear tequila
We follow him to that space
And are told
“Twilight is yellow,
Gravity, silver like soul”.
Soul
Is in fact,
Gravity’s magnitude
moon ring facades
shiver and
watch
ice carpenters
build a
Bird man
from a
stone
of stolen bread
high voltage wires
deliver
ice junkies
to painted lava birds
served
in submergible
lunar boxes
to be choked
by the sun
There’s no flaunting doctored sight from the dusty air
Or whisking the doctor of souls into sky caves
where his blackadaisickles are even more beautiful
when afraid of seeding stone.
As the wanton prickling of another language
barely pisses the throat,
I borrow one crying liquid from sOn,
the mist on that off-shore slate
that reads something different
each time I close my eyes.
scatter of blue lines
across the ceiling
the ancient dance
one
through
nine
paling scarlet
into blues…
…and paring
a somber presence
to our common satisfaction.
That night we sang and intricately polished the air
so by midnight, crushed indigo was the song the sun would jeer at
at dawn.
How the Earth is a Flutter of Little Schisms (Rimbaud’s Little Sowing Table)
For he is ever a sun, and she a moon.
But to him is the winged secret flame,
and to her the stooping starlight.
Aleister Crowley – The Book of the Law
It was the will of the stitch of light to hem the balance of night
to the mornings wind tweed.
The decorum of the room made me ill, raped in cornsilk
and gentrified by spider twill.
Sleep was inchoate, an incoherent plate of shy wine at a cornersky
Serialized into a network of drones
in a vain attempt to transform dreams
into a cupola of eternity.
Eternity topples and takes the heart into black flames.
Resurrecting itself wherever the moon is full, its blessings fall from clouds
of the most profound magnitude.
It is completely dense when pressed to the lips, rubbed to the thighs,
devoid of the essence that gives dream to life and life to fantasy.
Every time I invoke you I become more sentient.
I watch the road along the coastline morphing at a very high rate.
I watch little passions of earth burst into flame
Flawed, Compromised
Places unseen: Become seen
What savage deluge buzzes and reeks of this auriferous underworld?
I invent you into the cracked cast of the little Sunbird of the Nile
whose blue melting crest sweeps through the earth and braises
the dawn with her wounds suffered from the vine.
She has taught us how to hold the key to a honeycomb of a grass of rain.
She has taught us how to sow the seeds of a presence that would not be ploughed again.
She made us wonder until wonder became a glyph deciphered from a seed of our desire.
She flew the perimeter of this miserable, quartered garden and watched in grief
as fear infected the soil and devoured her iridescent longings.
Strained by deepening abasements, she fled the design of the Terra
only to be delivered to the abyss
where ascending the kundalini roots and veins,
was ossified and transmuted by other worldly composites.
Strata of microbes rise from the beautiful beast of her death
Transfixed in darkness by her faint, subliminal rays.
To be held to the orbital field of abstract bliss
Drifting in a whorl of phallic interstices
Seditious from the outset
A masculine energy summoned from the Pleiades!
Alcyone, my bearer of vastitude, my minder of sun and negated stratagems
Sterope, my antiphony of a dreamt civilization,
a gushing floodgate of my descendent Morning Star
Merope and Maia, feigning imperatives over my glimmering burnt forages
Electra, my beautiful puff of ruin, my antipode, my orison;
my sting of divinity against the malevolence of demons.
I have entered into your starfields with the waking birds and the sleepwalking mantas
where the sun is redemptive:
Obscured by opiates, it drapes dharma like an aerial cipher reducing germination
to all the struggles of swarming charged voltages.
This spirit-lined vestibule is the life beyond the finches,
the very beginning of a gathering vacuum and its tumultuous Bardo.
In its primeval intent, the world is a collapsing remnant in a gravitational mirage
where no measurable presence lies in proportion to its arcane distortions.
I have been willed to the mist but there are no means by which the air can speak,
no tendencies by which the night can decipher the hieroglyphs that lie long dead in me.
Ancient codes flowing from endocrines
spill spiritual morphines that beam signals to my cortex.
The crack in the darkness becomes the slender thread of time
where the moon as a spasm, boasts of veritable seductions.
I sit vigil
Keep watch with a lantern lit by phosphorous human bones.
It’s light, roaring between the circles of the meadow
illumines Diana’s manifestation there in the hornet’s nest.
She is beautiful, witness and negation to the degenerative black light of ruthlessness.
Without difficulty, she has entered into being
and I am teetering madly beneath her condensations.
I am in an unhealthy place, this path of divinity,
this long winding serpent sculpted from the delicate hide of some song to myself…
some linear remnant of a metric Dynastic
where the kept secret of Horus and the heart of the red smoldering sun
crest together in the falcon headed drift.
I merge with her, lulled in a mist of innocence to a deep sleep
where I am inferred for a hundred years!
I emerge in a shadow dream I feel of her Egyptian blue languor
where her soft aura reveals itself in the gleaming
arches of the marvelous.
She blesses me with the sad lament she whispers to each inert infinity
where I reinvent myself in the lightning maelstroms
of the luster dream embroiders.
How the Earth is a flutter of little schisms
mounted in the grip of an unfathomable balance.
As I float on her scheme I am in care of nothing,
no longer engaged by the blows of boisterous men
seeking sanctuaries of sun dappled by her vigor.
On the horizon, rows of her great veils rise
Where I am the treble between a semi-tone of loves will
Drifting backwards into bliss
Falling recklessly down into dark abyss.
