by Cam M. Roberts

From a prophetic litany of the repressed’s return,
out of her confessional hyperbole
cauterizing the air from catharsis –
To that great testimonial pledge, almost sacred,
as if it were a creed to be repetitiously chanted
like those syncopated songs, what some consider:
The fire cadence of the tongue,
sacrificing the very innocent, calmed and curated
Nirvana, bliss epitomizing silence
as paradise, at long last, saints
be later praised, all with vandal trinkets
of words which provoke colors
with flayed manged brushes to our very derangements
within a dream, presumptions departing
with agony as if it were possible, so much the better,
I’ve digressed again: Yes – With gaudy shades
wherein spectral harlots frolic
by means of misinterpretation,
then expressed so unnervingly in her disembodied voice.

Truly, an oracular persona which disquiets and compresses
on the mind as if a haunted afterimage spoke sooner than its belated arrival.
In the same beautifully terrifying vein as my Muse, I forget her name,
and from whence is charged with the polar attitudes of, of, I –
prescribe another name, my memory serves no one, least of all my self 
So is, nevertheless, personified & performed
with superlative sincerity & enough virtue to suffice me another year.


© CMR, 2012

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