Poems by Daniel Y. Harris

 

Ascent 30

Eddy is placed in an ossuary, cinemo-optical praxis written
on his skull. The gratis of export. Kiss the relic—metal-cast,
oil jar, wiki beeswax, to burn clean, blood-fed—just neural
spasms. He unscrews the urgent to climb Ladders of Divine
Ascent. Eddy writes the new Syriac Doctrine of Addai. 30
rungs. He presses the cloth to his wet face. We have drawn
a dead likeness of the dead with 3 disposable shrouds. We
are hell’s rubber vacuum. We are province kneeling before
h.im/a.liVe.in/H.eaV/e.n. Eddy, stagger, lunge, commune:
yellowed at the stem, upturns generations to an anchoress.
Eddy’s cell in Skipton is cloistered in the gland. A shade
infects to the purity of teeth and hair. Our wingspan balls
the void. The last virgin is consecrated. Is Eddy’s tongue
a summons to hear the dead? This is his talent to live up.

 

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Dormition 15

Saint Eddy “aureola” Daemon is oval-shaped, his vesica
piscis limned against the screen, decorated by quatrefoil
with its patina of four-lobes. Aureola Daemon is a glory.
His future is emitted backwards from a Brocken Spectre
cast in the low sun. He beauties The Glory of the Pilot.
E.M.A.nation from the headed light, plus triptych vites.
Comes down to these mandorlas in the coaxial medulla.
H.R.I.st in his majesty. Please stop the quip: dormition
of the mother feast is not fixed in a date. Nativity fasts
are faster than fish, oil and wine. How about the least
blessing of water? We’ll sleep in the cemetery. Contra
antidicomarians are about a death of the Virgin Mary.
No one admits that the crawlspaces are above the false
ceiling. Pedantry teaching demurs to the Holy Virgin.  

 

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Lefe.ty 917

Cross-sectioned wakes throw away her paraphilia. Not prophet
Daniel, but the burnt acetate of Lady Delphina. Or.al N.oR u.d
of a future much farther than the caged sincere. Is it the beard
matted in less than the pubic-black of regret? D.Eaf this jested
cur. You stomached to radicalize bad posture are our bloc\ked
shadow of light—opaque among antumbra, sunspot the dark I
of circular cones. How sack and même is its current time? Blah
the hemorrhaging for.Ge/t. No one cares the place, era—mode.
In the apex of the circular cones, clones of the umbra less are
more. Mo.Re is the lessed coeur. Eddy is openly empty of fra
time, hearted less to reveal the weak drudgery of continue. He
wills the Agon of Fight. Cum-giants of will/live.on continue.
They let Eddy star in the past camera. Why? Why the idioms
of a horrid reminder? Because smoke is the ash of a tray/ED.