Caricatures

Perhaps,
In some infernal pandemonium
A blind poet, cynical in the bone,
With "morality" jostling
Etched my mind out,
With alarming sincerity
And unsophisitcated placidity.

May be,
Because of this flawless description,
My blemishless beauty boils in a cauldron,
To become plastic,
A plasticine prop for the theatrics.

Or, perhaps,
An insolently irrational Romantic
Painted my eyes hazel brown,
While devinely orgasming,
With interspaced strokes of a pregnant black,
Procreating dollops of intense passion,
Drugging me into facile worlds of wonderwalls,
And a tryst with dear mirror image, which
Casts upon me
An avian euphoria,
Which, like molten metal, finally
Settles into sylvan dreams
And viscous idealism.

Oh it pains,
I can't realise why well enough, though,
When like a cigarette's anticlimax,
I burn out from an ardent orange
To grey, static ash,
When they slap on my visage,
Black and white caricatures
Like a wave mighty indiscriminate.

Or, perhaps,
My words are perusals
Of the clandestine imagination
Of a child in the womb
Of some Aphrodisiac Athena,
Which, in serpentine convolution
Coagulates to the harpischord
The wild wind brings
On a starry, cloudless night.
My shadow dances with the wind...

But, oh!
A numbness creeps into my countenance,
Mowing down my castles into rubble,
Precious, all the same.
My complexity disintegrates
As some Plebian serendipity
Plays notes of unheard, blasphemous sound.

And then, as if my mirror
Were some cleaved blue sapphire
Alchemized into a pristine diamond slab,
My body amalgamates some transcendental fringes
And my thoughts dawdle
Into a river called time
Which flows slowly;
Slowly, only so that I don't forget.