Poetry

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2 UNPUBLISHED WORKS — @undefined's mag on Magma

<h2>Matériel Perdu</h2>
<h2>BEAUTY AFTER CONCEPTS</h2>
<h2></h2>


His head felt as if 
(summoned by the same gods from whom we construe images of anger and aggression) 
it were held in place from above.


And that, (having lost all recollection of his body) if it stayed suspended like this any longer, he would begin 

to dry heave what was left of his imaginationp, and its corresponding organ.

My lady's tomb is living amongst us.
It stirs, with the consistency of a mirage from under our we tongues.
As she begins to speak: the sun and its radiance merge effervescently.
and
In the darkened house of architects who believe in progress
In the darkened heart of artists who believe in reason
my lady is never to be found.

When the dead return home to drowse.
They return to where the body, the earth, and their simultaneous decomposition, are all pigments on a circular canvas:
And the spirit maintains its flux and its effects.
A contradiction between a crown and its construction.
A vapor full of alchemy.
A gust of wind that drifts across a drying puddle, at irregular intervals.

And
(with an always unexpected outcome)
the wind
under the solitary sun 
the wind
Attests to the spirits ongoing search for poetic freedom.
For Figures. or
Faces.

They appear during the disocciation of my lady from her tomb.
For, my lady is never really mine, and will never live among us.
But her tomb, her logical casket,
serves as an opaque reminder, that my lady is also yours.
My lady is nature.