Is That The Kid?

I remember the lustrous and merciful house of God

Smelling like port, opening our eyes, necessating transformation as sun burns cloud

I remember being told 'Man must become golden- leave evollution to the angels'

Sanctified, solitary, useless on islands of erratic activity.

I remember the desire of flesh weaving its way like morning fog up off the ground
Spellbound in the whispers, caught in the dew of address
I remember the garden, the Iris' stem was a sword, it's flower a violet hilt
Those geraniums, salmon-pink and white, making me forget those voices of God

I remember you flooded the room with light 

With it shining down on different a thousand angles

I remember pressed flowers falling from Rimbaud's pages

As you carried him from room to room

I remember laughing as we broke the earth below the orange blossoms
We were the arpeggio, we were those who engraved great immoral aspirations onto eternity
I remember not caring about anything, knowing we were fulfilling prophesies and poetry
Opening the world to see if we could fill it with snow, to create rivers of lava

I remember trying to resurrect God after we had destroyed him
The angels had long since left us, they had never evolved, we had
I remember wondering where Oscar Wilde was, where was Rimbaud?
Where was the real Albion? Dead. With the Greeks, the Romans, with the Renaissance

And a holy garden that once bloomed full of Geranium, Orange blossoms and Iris