An archaic term that lit by a cigarette, bed replenished and depleted by orgasm, sings the tune of spilt lineage...
A lit past moon glistened by moorland recumbrance and the hallowed fascination of bone mouldered into loamy need, stubborn, my soul resposes while body, rent by the translucency of distinct urges knit from the ancestors of those bones, lays the land with its oldest friends, sharing a flask of worm and lichen, knowing the staying glory of a moment by which eternity etches its invisible, charmless feature, unchanged but to smile through the upheaval of stone and treeroot groaning with the mirth no humour can in the eons between yawns define.
Bone, tree, rock, loam--all with wet-eyed winks claim the same story, the only one, never told but always heard like the chant of the young girl's heart or airless wind. Contradiction binds through knotty stems and with grace procured by or for Gaia welds that seamless tale. And beauty unspeakable with certainty abounds, bounds, and traces the parameters of its demise.
The reproving upturned hand of a compromised blow to the quavering consumer of the Bacchus juice transmutes the juice into the ink of this pen, this bitch-sword, and in reproof finds its like through the word that, stabbing with the minutae of subtle, accumulated cuts leaves finally the g(r)aping wound unstoppered by cork or poulstice. The lust of gusted wind brings its calm-drip through a stylus less sword when said than surgical tool, cutting out the tumorous growth each slice regrows.
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