and they can be unmade.
The elastic lies deeper.
The throne of chains is dazzling
but its jewels can be taken.
Sweat paints the sanctuary
of penetrating light.
Blood is boiled away.
The night of stars needs no day.
Where is my cape of ancestors?
Didn't they want the bone
beneath the skin to be filled
with dreams? Don't I float
on infinite cells? These years
cannot remember. Only I can remember.
These chains of April are actually
the chains of December. They
come off like rain, like the flakes
of a spiritual pain, manifesting ash.
Hallways open to the outside,
the sash of multi panelled
cloth doors. The diamond formed
by all these intersections
resides with the sacred whores.
The oil of their foreheads
is anointed with my psychic wars.
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