Regarding Waves

Notwithstanding the moon sitting in Taurus
and madness on foot hovering nearby like
early-morning mist, we undulated timidly
chased uneasy by naked saints in tethers
picking up photons and slivered cakras along
the way, hoisting babels out of unspoken
thoughts and pederast sylphs bottled in 3-D
holograms.

A discography of kabbala in closed fists,
a definitive history of astral projections
and soul-searching near the womb and a foot
above the scrotum. Demented desires,
elegant deaths, triptych mirages and leftover
myths came in handy. We deciphered time
and its permutations while they floundered
in make-believe realms embedded in mangled
curses and sequined amulets.

We were dictated by the archaic: their gibberish
traces its roots from domino gods and seraphs
hanging dead in barbed wires. What lies beyond
their shopworn crafts? The précis of waylaid
cartography. The tinsel locution of winged seers
and demigods in reckless abandon.

From the empyrean tracks of the long-dead
to the lichen embrace of marble around
the emptiness of faith, we just thrived like
a stretto. From the rubbles of saraband wars,
from the azure heat and salmon skirt of the
desert, from the septic dew and umber of
virgin forests, from the mummies of the aborted,
from the estuaries of a pre-galactic time, from
the banquet of pablum and japati, we silently
claimed the suites and sextets trapped in
the cracks and recesses of mortared prayers
stripped to pieces by good morals and right
conduct.

Theirs was the whimper in nameless forests;
ours was the deep echo, a wayward requiem,
heaved from the crevices of a time gone mad.