The Flamboyant Table

Mad in the desirous blur of lights flickering all over the men, all over the bodies that lie naked on the relaxed earth. Here are the broken, here are rich, the poets with bad intent. Look at those boys with the dreams between their legs! Like the religion that once stood high in their hearts but has now crumbled like the walls of Eden. All the angels fly in their frenzied echo, teeth bared and swords drawn waiting for the pause, the entry, Oh, there shall be no beat for them though, no drummer to announce their entry for this is the city of trees where the pavements are golden and the language is pure, there is no mongrel culture here. What is the spark that ignites the search for beauty in the embrace of man? Who gently exhales warm breath on the spark to ignite great torrents of flame bearing down on the thoughts of the pure minded? Turning them from the bland soups on the bare tables of their schools and introducing them to the banquet upon history’s flamboyant table. Oh flicker, flicker, flicker, the lights scald the very energy around the men like a new music falling from the womb of empty space staining its stench upon the walls, leaving its mark, its symbol of phallic potency. Boys! Is this heaven? Is this the past? Is this the future of our days? I hope it is everything- a vast wave on an empty beach crashing down on every ray of light mashing it up with the laws of logic and the sand and the froth and the dreams and visions of every teenage lad in our position! Oh Only we know who we are, how it feels and what our reality could be. I want to know that fucking is real, that burning down a palace matters, that driving across continents with nothing but a packet of cigarettes and a notebook and pen is life changing. Oh we are the golden gods, we are the sunflowers on the verge of exploding- but ‘til then we sit in the flickering light and wave our hands back and forth lying naked on the relaxed earth.