The Mirror Has My Head / JOHN Thomas Allen

The Mirror Has My Head

I watch my reflection bend in the street,
in De Chirico’s liminal shadow points, the shade
and bordered lights’ snaking columns between
these cubed bees, my atoms, these pinwheel sigils.
My face sifts in points of singing sand dunes
in the lone funhouse mirror in a melting desert.
I am the dark diction, the dream marginalia coded
in the Ringmaster’s three ouroboros, blazing
in astral electrons, acoustic cells, drooling
on my moldy etheric skin. Tripled in the teaspoon
prisms of early morning; De Quincey and his Three Mothers.
Ectoplasmic gum and the pale fire in clown’s eyes
in the dawn’s paregoric, sad cenobites
of wonder, the orange sun’s yin yang,
angelogical locks bound in the double’s
alchemical hand fasting. In narcotic calligraphy
writ in cursive pale green, smoking in her papyri
body of gold, candelabras of Mayan marquees
split in diamond light. In the mirror there smokes
my shadow.I walk around and long for it in nature’s ringing
hallways. I hold the mirror on walks at nighttime
beneath the church bazaars, lit from within
eyes of peacock ore asleep in Stonehenge’s
yawning cells, lunar masses in oceans
yawning in the phantasmic skulls studded
on the stigmatic’s bone scimitar, the peepshow eyes
closing in dropsy blue. The maze’s music begins,
echoes of abandoned chambers winding in corridors
of pinched flame, pinwheels of ringing monks lit with faces
in footlights, the escapee’s tune of flight and flute guns
between the reeds, and a phantasm’s aural shards
sounding into being of narcotic christabels ringing
beneath their nipples. The halls of ringing bells and starfish
jester crowns, light bends, small faces streaking in crags,
a dowsing crash of mezzos and triptych sound alarms.
I am the dark diction the lost hour the scholar’s somnolent
cult of bodiless rain.
We study in somnolence with closed hands, eyes egg white

in the shock dialectic of flaming birdhouses, mystic psalms
of grammatology, spells of cabal.
Do words fly and fail against this dream ?
My head is an orange scarred from courtly reverie.
My eyes have grown moon lilies beneath the tilled soil,
there are drapes there
shifting in angles the geisha’s moon face
of gelato moons in starved black eye sockets
simmering in slumping ponds
I walk there are cubed bees inside me.
And inside my reflections’ trance crypt
I am the split lines of this arch mirror shielding me
The clown’s shrill whistle their lost phrases barbed wire
their subjective phantasmagorias the planetary grids,
Their accumulated aeons’ alabaster flies
Where the darkness collects in the mirror’s curtain
Do words fly and fail against this dream?


Magma Bunions

I suppose
at times I have
No place under zeitgeist skies
No face in occult museums
My skin bursts with macular pores
gives birth in monochrome sun gloss
for late risers to early dawn
I spin with plate tectonics
blink in the geode’s eye
fanged and spun

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