5. Mojo.

There are tight bouquets
Of dead Peacocks, Hawks
And Mallards floating
Synchronistically
Within
The perfect circles of our Irises.
They bleed
In precious metals
Diamond dust which licks
Our cheeks in snails tracks.
Boys get stuck in there,
Moth to glistened web and
We eat of him… bit-by-bit
As gravity
Suckles
His
Fat
Toe
Slow
ly and
With great resistance–delivering Him
In to
Our Hoover windtunnels.
We consume
A Tortoise’s pro
Creation pace:
Is sl o w ly… Beginning
In death, tears and leading
Us all into immanences victories–make us high–we reach
For happy. End.