These are seven poems that belong to the four volumes of The Matrix of Death.
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Necropolis
Ode To Their Final Resting Place
Oh necropolis, you charnel quagmire,It has been forty years two months and twelve days,
Initiation grounds of genealogies,
Lend grim, dead, mellifluous homesickness!
Grandest shelter for my quondam sorrows
For cordialities of charms from below,
Building up regal, sober synergies,
Inferred from the dormant necrologies,
Of the mountainous, tantamount thickness,
With malicious panegyrics so dire,
Irrespective of underlying gauntness.
Most of it will benefit with moments,
Of extreme eclat; either godly or,
Daemoniac but mostly of loving bliss,
Undisturbed by the unseen and camp gore,
Of hijacked corpses for warships of death,
That I'll fight until nothing seems amiss,
Even if the great task steals my last breath,
For its flashes of truth my soul enhance.
Heeding the calls of wanderlust rapport,
Which sport a toxic and uncanny trance,
Of a complex, florid corpse ravishment,Enticing to eerie memorial romance.
Since you, great modern Dionysus, did left us,
You, shrink of masses who turned our souls ablaze,
Deserve from the tomb of the earth's vileness,
Jim if I had your IQ or poetic genius,
Your goodness of elderly epical soul,
I could realize visions heterogeneous,
And mature being a hero of self-control,
Although you was not an example of control,
In your legacy I found most cherished law,
And your preceptor's quotes from your note scrolls,
Like your own death foreseeing, they inspire awe,
The New Creatures reveal athanasia,
And its sexual imageries of crossed trait,
Film craft in a nutshell from its roots Asian,
Poetic, yet academically lightweight,
In my teens your The Lords were a mind cracker,
Opened my sheepish deaf-mute conditioned mind,
Visionary poem, an occultism-packer,
But sometimes your bacchantes streamlined.
This Earth is not the same since you went away,
Many of the known arts have been desvirtuated,
Degradation took hold with its lecher sway,
Tons of potential readings were mutilated,
The sixties' styles got pitilessly kitsch,
When emulated in harrowing twenty-tens,
While the melancholy of your tinsel's ditch,
Recalled me to your pottery works, to cleanse.
Dead Jitterbugs
Odorikos, and hoofers and show girls,
Gamboling about with a stilted balance,
The rare parade of dead fancy unfurls,
Along the jitterbugs of MORRISON,
All like defiled, emaciated, foul, puppets
Oft reminders, with riddles beyond reason,
Of all sort of out of place punkettes,
I found myself as the invisible boy,
Witnessing unique stirps combinations,
With adolescent instinct to destroy,
As ex-pallbearer, friend of the ravens,
Yet, settling down there took a compromise:
Deconstructing all of which there hogties.
Thanatology
Fit starts of a daring necromania,
Detonate emerging poriomania,
Branding for life with its triptychs' plumes.
Inciters of dead, stoned dipsomania,
Great wisdom the spirit world presumes,
And poets, mediums and sensitives grooms,
With a generous, strong metromania,
Busts like God's with attendant graves,
Strong enough to start lyrical waves.
Obsession for the sources of this work,
Its stoned eudamonia for long years now...
To learn death's botherations and death's smirk,
To rise as higher as death would allow.
Ecstatic Sod
Tiring with riddles of shy barbarian trot,
Spread perfidious stipulation of coin rot,
While its perpetuum conditioned dead fumes,
Confront the mind with underhand paltry doom,
And the synchronals of unease weaved like cloth,
Producing stark ecstasies which sod like froth,
Each ignorant of the other in death's womb,
But the above view is only a reading,
For masses lightweight on lore esoteric,
Which miss the signs and their godly interlock,
That exhume more arcane and mystic threading,
Than the mere vitriols of a mind hysteric,
Blind to the sounding memorial beacons' stock.
All Nights' Stand
When it's evidenced and showcased nightly,
Boldly, lacking any given defense,
For demons of ugliness unsightly,
Will amass piles of fecund success,
So wild that even devils will acquiesce,
In the soundless abysses of dead moons,
Witnessing the poet's noctivagant croons.
It does happen in the enfranchised night,
That isn't to all humanity guaranteed,
To be to flesh-eating, demoniac greed,
Immune, and out of reach, with grander height.
Long nights which are the defying sanctuary,
I thank you for the enthusiasms bloomy!
The Edge Of Love
Goddess in a pink nylon jacket produced from the goodness of unconstraint,
Or the inviting multi-dimensionalities of jumpsuits without buns
Felt like a paradigm shift letting me, from any means before, unconstrained,
The enticing uniqueness of your beauty forced me to be romantic
To acquire the great knowledge, key to a happy end and a love unconstrained!
What else could I expect from the purported form of an integrated society?
—Lex Taylor