The spent-fortune of the few who loved, <br />a catechism of archaic thigh & position: <br />Drinking from their breasts the rich glow of origin <br />in forbearance—once abundant along the shores <br /> <br />of Eden & Sumer, the cornucopic-riverings, the new <br />Apothecary drip, amidst the red moon & purple <br /> <br />Aurelius of northern night where constellations <br />are interrupted momentarily for a silver arrow: <br />Like the vein where star-filled oil is struck, <br />and the zodiacal homes are replaced by mansions <br /> <br />The gods aloft in bell towers of Stardust <br />with Ziggy & Sinatra ringing back & forth. <br /> <br />Ejaculatory universes, the flooded past tense, <br />intentions always better than what graced <br />the aftermath. The glass-doll minuet <br />touch my aching hole, filling a vicissitude <br /> <br />long procured by descendant <br />Ghosts of Christmas past and present. <br /> <br />While shadows escape out backdoors across this <br />great US of A, my weather-beaten country, <br />divided to reunite again under a mistress awning <br />championing for change and sided in saga <br /> <br />punctuated by a moan, <br />a door slamming.<br /><br />s./j. goldner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/purple-dusk-of-twilight-time/
