And out of the sun's gates come little girls in dresses of fire
wearing pigtails of braided smoke which stem from their moon cratered scalps.
The glowing seeds of a nightly garden that will blossom into full moons
irregardless of the sun,
Veil the night in the seven names of the wind through the tales of their
wind blown fathers.
Who will father these mother's of light?
And what will become of me?
Children of the Night.

Only some will star the sky.
Only believers in death will die.
And fathers must feather the wings of women.
For the unfeathered masses dangle ridiculous,
carrying crosses to phalynx filled tombs.
The future sells silence through blood rivered wombs
that ripple with riddles of cows and spoons, and birth, moons, earths and suns
centered at noon.
She buries her eggs in the soil
and plants her feet in the sky.
Soil seeds the circus of carrots and clowns,
and minstrels show our desires.
And here I stand
court jestering infinity,
fetal fisted for revolution
but open hands birth humility.
Now what is the density of an egoless planet?
Must my spine be aligned to sprout wings?
I'm slouched in the slingsleps and kangoled with gang reps
but my orbit rainbows saturn's rings.
Mystical eliptical presto polaris karmic flame future with saturn and aries.
And now i'm a fish called father
with gills type dizzy,
blowing blood and liquid lullabies through the spine of time to tranquilize the
nervous system's defeat.
At the feet of the river the children are gathered or rather buried in that mass grave
site of the night.
They are the seeds of light planted in the sky
but the night and skies are meaningless to their unearthly eyes.
They are our children playing chess on the sunburnt backs of one eyed turtles.
Check mating a life time slow crawl to enlightenment.
They cash in their crown and glory for magic and contradiction.
The children of fiction
born of semen filled crosses thrust in cavalry's mound.
With memories of mañana's millenium.

The gravity of the pendulum,
the inscription of the grail.
The rumors of one famine and diseases and storms of hell.
All hail the new beginning, behold the winters end.
Bring on the puppets and dragons as the ceremonies begin.
For they have come to shatter time and bring back the dead newborn,
an army of me.
Bearing change in the frontline and shadows in the field mines,
the wilderness and the lights in the city.
I have seen them.
A tumultuous army of bastards and beggars, mad men and idiots,
witches and harlots, dancers and lunatics, singers and sinners,
losers and lovers, students and teachers, poets and priests.
Orbitting the realms of the ordinary through the ordinances of those ordained
by the beast.
These are our children, love laden life lanterns casting shadows that shepherd
the flocks.
Crying wolf in the moons full at sirens of love's lull.
The offspring of gibraltar's rocks.
Who will deny him and thrice crows the cock?
Will it be you, Peter?
Decked in demiers denial masquerading in matter overminded, under-trialed.
Self is the servant to serpents with wings.
Three is the beginning of all things.

Try angles to rectangle your wings,
let vision blur,
let your naught deservings disintegrate.
Pile stone, unearth ancient learnings.
See self as the ghost of your servings.
If you're serving the father, there's no son without mother.
Parent bodies discover water bodies and drown.
Wade me in the water until atlantis is found.
On the seas of ourselves, i'm starfish and unbound.
Heard the name of that mound is stone mountain.
Underwater volcanoes erupt water fountains of youth,
less this carnal equation cancel out truth.
Throw me beyond sometime and drench me waterproof.
Let leaves drop forever, rain sun sets on my roof,
as I sit on the front porch of my sanity,
deciphering ham bones to van gogh,
this vanity oiled egoes canvased and framed to be reborn,
unborn,
unburied,
unnamed.
A reflection through a bloodstained glass window of souls gone yellow around
the edges.
Carbonated dreams and blurred daily lives.
But let family bring focus.
Out of swamps blossom lotus.
The muddy water blue daughters of infinity.
Gravity, we water bodied bhodisatvas our serenity.
As we rise with the tides towards divinity.
And she will be raised by wolves just below the masonry dixon line,
where eagles noose the misuse of osiris's omega papyrus in their claws clenched
so that the vultures of our memories may feast upon the remedies of ancient laws
lynched
and flop to the treetops of the forethoughts we have forgotten.

Yes silence will be begotten of the wind.
The silver eyes of the darkness are her friends.
They sometimes plant forever in their dens.
On the mountain side but sometimes now and then, between the rise and set of you
and I
may blue visions know the depths of liquid skies.
And some ask me if she cries in the night, and there's a subtance of her tears that
drench the days with light.
****, you better hope she do.
'Cause they're riddled with fur coats and painted faces dancing at the porphyries
of perfection.
They eat chinese apples that stain their teeth red and they'll cap a cosmos of chaos,
and in a moments notice the children are on the train.
Selling chocolate with their mothers in the background,
fundraising their dreams from the dead.
And the authors of order are corresponding catharsis and change the leaves of my
needs from orange to red.
I need fruit and vegetables,
for these living things can feed the span of wings,
thus she was born to charter my flight into the blues of night.
I am the darkness that preceeds the light.
A pupil of the sea's reflective sight.
Notebook in hand, I footnote land and write.
Plot dot dot dot and dot my i's is right.
And cast my lot amongst the Children of the Night.