Manifesto

The poem being:
When is the poem being?
A mode of display,
Loops of language
Coruscating
Into congregating
Idols, the symbols
Of her electric face.

Here is the shine
Of beautiful lips
Forming the tips
Of beautiful words!
Words not, indeed,
Fragmented, pieces
Torn from linguistic
Fadaises,
But the spoken,
The true, and the true
Not spoken, but read:

When valleys are embodied
In promises,
When lyrical lilts
Come to their own
Green being,
Then the mountains
Will not separate
But agregate
Into a poetry seen;

Meanwhile watch
The poets dissolve
Like drops
Sublimate in salty streams,
While the taste
Bleeds sallivating sips
Of clear dyed slime;

Watch history
Melt
Like butter on a clear
Day
Into the dusky
Philosophical haze;

Then raise the tower of triumphs
To the ground,
And raze the burning towns:

The clear smoke
Of a raining flame
Blurs
The line from heaven to hell.