A poem about my friends
Silence. That sound is a lover of the wind
breathes essence of fire
tadpool of the Earth
turns rain into sapphire seas
makes emperors of sacrarium suns.
Every sense serves some sort of scope
into the parameter of a flesh exhaled
from soot to cinder enmeshed as ashes.
The presence of the present spoke in
sacraments mapped beneath organized crime
while the fabricated archetypes speak in counterfeit algorithms.
Blessed BE those who ejaculate oil slick seas
wear skeletons as trees that father temples of words
as trees weep their leaves
worlding spilled blood vanillin
tombs where the lies have been buried.
There are the bees.
One BEE. The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat to
all creatures that sing of poetry, philosophy and harmony.
The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat to defeat
those that seek containment of the colonies.
She seeks to pollinate those who know
align alliances with solar eclipses,
make prayers with the sphinxes
cycle the Earth to the womb
of a new moon, that turn rivers red
with a new menstrual flow
of a free world where the unarmed do not get shot.
Culture is the sum of human behavior.
Expect resistance. Our wings hum insistence that intends
to swarm on the current nature of this existence.
Need I mention democracy, idiocracy, bureaucracy
unconscious pornography. You probably already heard
that I preach against dichotomy.
You are here. You are listening to this because you have been chosen.
Your eyes speak in flowers with blood ambrosian.
The QUEEN BEE that BE the beat synchronized
with the beating 528 frequency of the galaxy
pollinates the few to bloom many
new wombs for an old and tired universe.
Flowers fit fertile in the arteries of artillery
they take over cities and speak among streets.
please make love and procreate.
What is to BE must BE created
as a BEE resting between the indents of our palms
we have psalms written on the scriptures of our fingerprints
we have the son of suns encrypted beneath fingernails
have I hit the nail on the head yet right below the halo
made up of dandelion wishes and sapphire stigmatas.
It is up to the flowers that breath the essence of the beat.
Chaos BE the void at the BEginning of creations.
Here the stars smell of sulfur and blink butterflies
with scorched wings on a memento
of monopolization disguised with sunrise.
Man, the invasive species inflows leeches on colonization
unknowing when the BEES die, as do they
machines cannot mimic the mastery of her pollination.
Spread from seed to see
remind the ones who know and awake the absentee.
We all must first grow from a fragile germination
interweave rhyme and reason for lilac liberation.
When she stings, she dies
crucified to supply a name for the future. New life.
New limbs for the souls that harbor in the trees
the unwise decay and discolor, descend with the leaves.
So that we can rise. We are the BEES.
Our blood burns as fire, breathes between every crevice
simmers in sweet honey shivers.
Let it BE.
The Queen BEE breathes the power of BEing.
She is them. She is you. She is me.
The BEE knows and the BEES can see
The BEES work to harbor the hive and survive
death, the bowing goddess shapeshifting
from a wearied Winter into a suitor of Spring.
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