Lambency of the Sinking Spiral

Beneath the arc of the rounded fliukka bereft rainbow ley

Whistled the lark as the arrow lost its way

The Blue lightless; perfect-colored; obfuscated

Still, always supine, I traversed the sandy veil

Falling forever through each second;

All moral minds; sentinel climbing

Falling to Hell



The circle we carved as we moved was wiped away with the sound of the morning crow call…

His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon


In the hallway outside my bedroom door,

I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to its restful drones,

With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation,


A beacon as blue as a bowerbird’s eye,

A poem written in threes over infinity,

My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn; the dark,

Another parallel night in the hard,

And the quiet decline of my questionable times forlorn

Disinterested forever in upwards motion,

I hung out by the white chalk letters.


The cathedral buried beneath another cathedral is where the glibbest instrument lay

Dying in this “living human shell”

All is calm; refreshed

And there it still rests, exhausted,

While in the visible room, a pipe continues to play.


The insensitive diviner, feeling ill.


The invertebrate rolled over; time stopped

Suddenly the gospel pages mutilated

And my entire bookshelf reversed itself.


I don’t want to be the melody

I prefer the choking sow

Who, while taking every care to parry

Of wiped monotheist

Has wound up with her head in the ground

And each of us choking on the leaded end bait with a sound


Can’t help but sleep falls until it’s dark

And winter weighs on every broken bodies bough

We watch you as you drown

And reach up to us on your sink down

You’re hanging from your toes in a medieval fastening redoubt

Come back and I’ll tell you more…


Laughter is ceasing, ceasing by you, coward towards an effort of drawing one,

The tarnished brass shines its verdigris grip

All the coroners of New city wounds cut in their poisoned frost

They are calling, all the coroners are calling you…


You are completely alone in this world

It’s not your fault it’s just easy to forget

Or arrogantly of flowers blazed across your face

Hands are cut in the rain

Waiting for a voice to say come in

Outside, a bell is ringing on a traveling olive branch

Now I’ll be cold forever

To an innocent stranger?

Which hand is heavier on the snare?


Ian V. Seymour ©2014 (January 3rd)


Ian V. Seymour ©2014 (January 3rd)

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