The coded feather in the glass

Amulets of sapphire
Those pretty glow worms of the fragrant tree ceremony
That twinkling array
Under the moon
Starlit graphite sailing on the drifting canal
It simply softens for the migrant workers
Their arms reach up towards the high bridge
Casting their own shadows on the cherry grates
Breaking the news to the fanciful coalition
I am a reader of thoughts
Salient
Golden to the touch
Golden to the feel
Ampoules of pure dress rehearsal
I’ve seen it once in the glass cage and I will refer to the damaged content for more
It tricks the eye with a beam of silvery lust
And the German friends that live in the ceiling cast light
On the doors on the shelves
And the ones on the beach and the singer on the shore
With the fires in their eyes
They leap in a twisted article formation
Pruning their sandy knees
Slice open the cherry picking wonders and divide the segments into the whole
Fill it over with grass and paint it in the colour of beech trees
We’re not living by the sea now
We are landlocked by an array of stationery
Comforting and soulless
I can’t pretend to understand or neglect the immigrant miracle
And we won’t watch them burden their noses
With an infiltration of bees
Sanctimonious and stripy artefacts
They wash away the doubts on the fourteen faced compass
It spins in a recluse
It spins only for the moments
Pointing nowhere in one thousand directions
I can be lost when I climb the walls
I pull off the picture rail and slide it through my teeth
That camaraderie was lost on the pigeon roads
As they struggle to achieve alignment
They crave the attention of many wheels
Oh the feathers the feathers the feathers
Dirty intimate feathers
They’re not listened to by anyone
I can’t hear the feathers in my mind
I can hear the breaking clattering thunder and the ambidextrous love
I can separate it from the circle
And wait for St. Peter forever
That’s it for me and the shelves I no longer surface on
I’ll waste a year just watching your hair and be comforted by your knees
Those tidy covered pockets of air
They fill the glittering stars with peace
They close around your eyes gasping at the aftermath
That low sinking noise
Drifting through the undercurrent
It bewilders the mongoose
It no longer knows your name
And the trappings of your eye cigarettes
They can tell me only one thing
Half of it’s true and the other half is arrested by clowns
Wringing out the spaces
Let them drip to the floor
Reflecting the love of the ceiling
Let them run cascading through the halls
Drifting along like a Minotaur
Without skates
And then they said to go and I said I’ll go and I will be going
I have ended this journey with a door
And the door is not green
But I will go through it into the window world
And speak the language of all the ducks
Oh I’m going to drift away
Let go of my pillows and leave
Return
With folded papers
Staple my hands to them
And I will pat the rugs into the floor as a gesture of goodwill

© Laerrus 2011

[Surrealist poetry]

(via laerrus-at-pixelflake)