Let the stormy night coil the spiral verses
with a taste of the agony spell
while your lips yearn for rain
buried under the oldest garden tree
on a prairie’s thirsty soil.
Surrender all past to vertigo cadences wind suspensions
abruptly stubbed with the crushing memory thunder
and crescendo blasts
Where the mandrake forbidden root screams in a piercing cry
surrounded by hungry dogs sniffs and howls,
cornered beneath the weeping-willows,
full of hanging dissonant wood-stock wind-chimes.


Hail strafes puncturing a leitmotif of the Faustian sleepless night
full of broken golden coin pustules, viral conundrum boils, doubt blisters,
and internal sores burnt by sours wrapped around a grim, cold fear
clawed with flashing storm hands
black night heart
sinks in thoughts
leaving dreams to digging worms
and Earth Spirit’s magic spores—
they shoot moonlight through veins
in low and high spring tides,
they bloom in rose crystals
breaking in luminous blanks and sharp edges,
mirrored in a gray foggy air wetness,
where the chrysalis of the soul crosses the borders
walking blindfolded on the rope
between the two perennial sea margins–the light, and the opaque.
The brooding emptiness night
is stack in time of the shriek crossroads
where the pain rebels rioting against the hanged human tree root
pale and scorned on the horizon of the two rising suns.



imagesCAIQF1GZ“How otherwise upon me works this sign!

Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer:
Even now my powers are loftier, clearer;
I glow, as drunk with new-made wine:
New strength and heart to meet the world incite me,
The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me,
And though the shock of storms may smite me,
No crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me!” (Goethe, Faust, Scene 1, “Night”)


William Turner, The Devil’s Bridge in the St. Gothard Pass, 1809.












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