MAUDLIN MAWS▪︎Poetry (3)

58. Deem us love, not the lords lowered and in the clouds

He kept telling himself he's ready the words like splashing cold water on his face
Chasing away the want to fall back asleep atop from that bridge
As he cruises his feet on the rust of the verging closing,
mottled knees on unseen pedestal steps to cleanness,
to the delicate slant at the end of each garden-tiled floor
"I'm ready" aloud the wuthering stars aloft hear it, the doves big white ferries  are plagued by its utterance
_ his poised, beacked heedlessness
A rehearsed sickness he taunted himself with,
impelled the depleting of his hopes in
"I'm turning this longing to a veteran experience, today's the day I claim the knob of happiness !"
Every deaf ear gathers it, and waits_ waits for disappointment to hook him square in the kernel of his conjectures;
The ones he formed upon classical accounts of ballads speckled with broiled cinnamon for punctuation marks

As the bouquet turns crimson
The burgeons grim, stiff and unfirm to be held firm against the words he begged himself to spit without a retch
Sun bleaches itself behind the color of her mane;
A manicure of bronde tones and woodsmoke hues of expired deeds done in secret escapades over the summer
Fluting her damaged limes to the hinterlands he buried his fruitless punnets,
the empty, accordion-folded stomaches of his curs in
Preserving the galloping he felt to reach the chewed moon,
hint the elbow of the eclipse moving at the spot she lends the earth when she stands her shadow tugged beneath her heels

'I'm ready' is no full order to compel the shapes her eyes take at the aperture of the tartarean period bracing her howl
_And he hands her the crimson petals
His heart thumping on the bass drum of his gait that its bones founder
The voice critical for someone who ables his pluck to climpse at what verges behind her
A running flame daunting the hay grass he lain in,
hoping for an appetency to bestow its trenches upon him, bribe his cross to the gilt ledges of heavens
Here, she climbs asking to be fed
and the sun, the sun_ a blinding flambeau in the skies_ shields her eyes for how much her light burned scalding
Peeling Ra's rugnant by smidgens from her face
Bolstering the promise to his wishes to be molten serous beds of rigor, Eden-rousing velds of lure
He takes it in_
Nothing but a man on his knees tugged his volition is in the incentive her fascination summons

Re-enacting tragedians' cessation numbers
The first fault of being spurt alive, a never-ending plight of bleeding amidst being
The found creed in the breathing mouth of guilt_
Absolution hailing the father's hand (extended but never reaching)
Punishment, acceptance, punishment,  acceptance
Want, punishment, acceptance, Want
Want, punishment, acceptance, Want
Want, punishment, refutal_
Want, Want, Want red-hot
She sears the cuff of her faith sully with love's hovering fingers and comatose snare-clasp
The flames mount the ghost of the white owl bedding the night
"I'm ready" one last utterance from him before god rattles from above
"I'm ready" the opening of her loveletter as the devil breaks his horns, chews on his tailpiece and shrieks as she washes the pledge from her hands
The world falls through genesis both twine fathers biding forsweared_
And they_ they melt dozing in a blaze of their making
that burnt, burnt, burnt just for them so tenderly

22/8/2023