Sweet Scent of Old Tomorrows

Standing in the vast, empty sky,
the angels of Victorian
aviation
drop sandbags
to buoy themselves
to nosebleed
altitudes,
twisting limbs to pull
taut ropes
and fire balloons:
An image
pixilated on a green glass
screen
bombarded by
a glowing electron rain.

Standing in the vast, empty
room,
I watch a bygone world
of ascending adventurers
whose dreams
have weeded over with
creeping ivy.
The angels of deceased days
rise into infinite space.
I stand in infinite dusk.
Phantoms flow
Through my netted nerves,
sun-drenched
dry.
Sun-drenched
dust-devils
dance on tombs
of pink stucco.
My fingers clutch the folds
of perfumed silk.
Your unforgotten fragrance fires my
nostrils
and visions of endless times
dance like flickering flame-shades.
And I stare into
the punctuating pupils
of the tiger’s smoldering face.
And I don’t wish to rule over
a vacant plain
and watch spirits
flutter like spent smoke,
leaving ashes…
leaving concrete glaciers…
leaving glass great cats…
leaving subtle white-wash
of cracked stucco starbursts…
King of dented desires.
A piece of plaster
lodges in my swollen skull
and my dismal, dry veins
ice over like
dying sunlight on pavement---
shiny silencio
spending the night
in a standstill
downbeat.
The future in the ice-aging
present
pulled by the salty, wicked
winds.
Blown mind and
blown soul.
Good stories are written by
The packaged
night children,
wrapped in butcher paper and
glacial dreams.
Your unforgotten fragrance graces my nostrils
and visions of a bygone world
beyond these shrouded windows
play like moonlit shadow puppets,
telling tales untold
in the waking wealth of dawn.
A piece of puzzle
lodges in my swollen skull
and the upbeat
and the downbeat
tickle tattoos of
shattered silencio,
spending the skins
of worn warriors.
Spending the souls of
dried poets.
Your unforgotten fragrance fills my nostrils
and visions of a bygone world