unfinished poem with sunbeams

from my pages the impossible sunset implodes. my eyes burn and burn. worse than boiling. worse than oscillating between lips and lips. the flesh inflames the Hour of the blank abyss. let's spend whole days on this verse, and let's roam, and keep roaming upstream till the womb where life and reality disagree. Life has nothing to do with Reality. It speaks other language. Reality cannot understand My substance of Unknown without disembarking from Reality. and the child, the newborn child alone, is this fountain of possible landscapes where effort leads to nothing. For the Whole flows between lips and lips upstream till the womb where like a dream it begins Life devores Reality, altering the substance of flesh into future. destruction and its aftermath was in the religon of myself before the fall of all young poets. too young and tortured and abandoned. many harps and drums seek the newborn to begin. as if the rain, all the rain and all the seeds and all the springs were awaiting those headaches and purple uncertainties. the rays arrive from the eyes, my silent and obscure faith in everything else. than reality