Metamorphite's Blog

Just another site

Category: out of the rubble

O Salutaris Hostia

With sweet little clicks of the bottom jaw,

I drift away nimbly

and taste me on the palette of god,

whose might – arching sharply

in photons in angles and

brilliant spatial shrines


And then reattach, slowly

all of me to the grander

and view us: clan of the upturned face

of eyes steeped in dogma

and over conditions, earthly

mourn over. Over

granted right to err

and well-shut privilege of ignorance

Against its veins, everything

never banal never trite

in the lap of disenchantment, then.

Learning the key to knowing-

and such that knows

having always known

all Earth’s patterns

all planetary tendencies

Staunch and Irreversible.

All of which,

during explosion

during creation and fruition

at the mighty Hand’s fall

and snap of Sun fingers



And as simply scattered dust and stars;

planets claimed moons

light, spread many

nations and water

Or all at least

its particles involved.

By nothing significant paid

for my reentrance into the unlasting,

against the endurance of the instant

fleeing to their treasury

into reemerging neverness

and happening again only inside

the vaults of sky and

a purple crescent

tumbling down.

But without shadows

falling long on weathered features

(these bludgeoning reminders)

I’d not know the sensation of falling;

flattening on impact.

Iʻd be naive

to the miracles of mass resonance

and finding seraphic measure by myself

all at once

and after all


Having shed my daintiest omissions

for the end to negligence

I am with nubile poise, anew in stride

through mediums of eternal chronology

Now perfectly streamlining


lo and beheld

here while neap tide, a lunar betrayal to bulge on the midrib

as chill by crest in the free-fall

and lie on the wisps of lamentation.

but i fumble foolishly, entailing a new creation

while conserving my orbits to distance rebuttal, and evilly

tempted by the digress shortly toward you, slippery and

so soft again in keen recollect

by the flight of bird or

the palette of desire, enduring and


to safety in the firmament

for our one last union

in the wide mouths of heaven.

so next time i promise

to keep the hunt

just within

my self.

automatic inheritance

Drawing near, a delicate time of


All faith slipping;  held for corrupt


But we are all bankrupt


So let it be killed,

And know instead

The sameness of sound and silence,

And the flawless movement

Of time among light,

Of time among dark.

Know the ceaseless expansion

Of Universe

Into Infinity.

Then you may know

The Absolute.


A fret for denting populace.


Me at evening hour, humid,

witness to the pearls of twilight,

erring the talons of mem’ry,

A thought collecting

in the facade of content.

(I lurch for nearest convenience).

And driftly in:

You… like steam

from the spout of kettle,

condensing on the skin

of my palms at teatime.

But I wipe you away,

cleanly, easy,

and reborn in moments’ newness

in the fecundity of absolution:

(unavoidably sooner

of course

than death-caught-time).



lying flatly, placed highly this

diehard confusion:

passing you in the gardens

of promise that trapped you,

the deadening shame;

seeing you alight

by all that which you sought,

year after year

only to bud


then fall again

to ash.


Your exhibitions, having folded doubly

unto thy self, reflecting

the mess of all behind.

The Prime



A wondrous perch, this here winged bosom,

So well the fit, your heart in mine,

All lovely plumes of budding ardor,

One with the other, with ease, aligned.


-And oh!  The fluency, by which it grew,

Soundless and certain piqued my delight,

Romance foretold, no never, yet,

A first for both, no difference slight.


That so, foreign welcome, our pasts had found,

Congruence on the other’s palette,

A reach toward wonder, a hatching fate,

A folly’s naught, all sensed was valid.


Until, indeed, shone unto you, dark,

the beaming shadow, cast low, a doubt,

Affair, in question, to stop expansion,

This tryst of ours, better with-out.


T’was perhaps not, as was my rapture,

Alas, but truth, upon any handle,

Of logic dripping, to nothing’s best,

A bitter shame to taste such scandal.


Now in the wake of romance drying,

Amends the tender, recoiled bash,

A heart’s deceit, the thieving whims,

Your deletion quick, and awfully brash.


So funny, now, the violent bend;

My joints this way, unworthy peril,

A roughness in the press on bone,

This body’s writhing, such malice, feral.


And blanched o’erhead, sight stuck in crag,

Or tree, black staff, of melting stone,

The hard encumbrance, an ache, trifold

And stark confusion, a harnessed groan.


Now climbed atop, a nude chest: leapt,

Posing on the heel of noon,

In buckled heat, sweet flesh a-curl.  Tough,

I write my self in different tune.


With every writ to aim this here

And now, condolence warm, I lift,

The masonry ’round gilded heart,

My core resettled, sentimental shift.


I’ve plucked all relics out from their nest,

And one by one, they loosely came,

To gradually bring grand liberty, vest:

No more do tears fall in your name.

Clamber Trap

But…or alas, ever what ever was, ever how I have ever been, having been being, that is, is just simply that: numbly stapled, and sewn back. Probably imbibed (caustically) with no immediate provocation, for house pariah. Here. Ending my days, reversed/a-tumble/and spatially asunder (as would a burning library, in the middle of a desert). My lust now snarling, a stampede into extinction. How awfully testicular. In that, so you, if if, not when, chose reunion, again would be privy, my declination, by declaration modestly, or with vehemence: I write you off a crucible.

No longer this widowed love


Even nothing

to perish anyway.

Art of war?

Oh, Trojan horse, your clever gaunt
Of what, this embedded shrapnel,
Under guise as dupe, A COUP!