The part of me that speaks, the part that obeys
Two chambers evolved from the annulled flashes of the Fall of Man
The soul divided
Swallowed by Hades and released from Pandora’s box,
A bicameral chasm in whose stream I am in want of understanding,
in whose dream life and death reflect the infinite.
In the song of sex desire implodes, decimated by numbers representing
Eros in his transmutation:
The number 2, Himeros and his sirens poised above lovers exquisitely
born from the rhythm of an infallible truth
and 7, a point of light revealing impressions of the Thanatos apparition:
The Temporal Spirit
The Conflicted Duad
The days flow like Mayan vibration without the grace of pleasure
or the wisdom of prophecy.
The essence of my thought feasts on the demeanor of death
My lineage traipsing a fold in transmission, and without pause,
Riddled by the vileness of cadenced blood, Karma takes to the air
but never speaks of the wind or whispers
to the scattered hallowed lands.
Its ascension, an appropriation of desire unraveling in the object desire:
A temple of opium flesh that has returned from a past life less spent
coloring the veils of the daughters of a lost Horus elemental.
They come by night from the thighs of spirit;
from the line of dream melded to the shadowless woman’s breast;
from occult spells draped across deflowered contracted continents. Continue reading “The Song of Sex, by Arthur David Spota”