rhyme’s word is sirius, dogtooth in a samba.
rhyme fleeces its flesh and bone and
spires in a pyramidic valley.
rhyme rears, through hearse and arctic spume,
the straining ebbs of the rainbow’s gyre,
the cry of helm and envoi, sired and volleyed.
rhyme’s lave is daughtered by a jordanous fire.
the sermon in a scut, the glory that abides,
strips on the summits of verbotem.
rhyme that seeks Life, sparkling in the mouth,
as the shores of Israel, shall be found
and furnished with the yores of death verbatim.
who makes a rhythm? which rhyme is colour?
rhyme blows the starving angel in the vein.
rhyme is board and sovereign as time’s scheme-
the world is fusion made inside its searing peril-
a secret-in-a-vial, conserving with the seas,
sound knells the supine bell with runeous hammer.
behind a rock of rumour a lackadazing whistle
tells me of the hour, its harpstrung scream
flairing where the word expires, consumed and gleaming,
where harpischord and trumpet wind against a dream.
come of blood and mortar and the meadow’s signals,
cum of spark and ash, the rhymer grinds,
breaks and constrains then parries like a widow.
born of clang and crash, the whistler splits the choir.
especially when the rhymer reads-
(born of spring and summer and the autumn’s sister,
the angelus of winter and the dilly in the veins)
with linguid liquids, famishes and cleaves?-
come of an augur whose auguries are daughter
to the hearted heel of music, spiring come the showers
of the tocsins in the blood, warring and conspiring,
where, by bolt and oboe, the vowels of music flood.
glad in a shower of words, i listened?
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