The Moho oogenesis of oolong
night
reveals November leonides
falling lentissimo in major key.

Orion is in the stars,
scintillating like a moiling,
molecular
incunabulum in utero.

In the champagne quietude
of the sacristy, the Griffin holds
a golden revolver.

The chimerical creature
wants ichor for his blood;
he wants liquor for his pain;

he hopes his weapon
will spit flames and
make heaven’s cloud gates
swing open on hinges made
of souls;

He wants god to grant him
his immortal wish.

But behind these gates is
a cherub’s dark paracosm:

A legion of
sublimated summations
sleeps within a jeweled
catacomb.

These mathematical
figures are benthic angels
manacled in chains
of cosmic subtraction.

A witan monad
is the unbreakable lock
on the cirrus gates of
this blackish paradise.

At the heart of
the monad lock,
the circle of the earth
aligns
like seconds in the
winking hoop of a minute;

At the heart of the
monad’s minute,
the soul of mathematics has
maxillofacial light bulbs;

These lights in the mouth of
math’s soul blink out the
nonverbal meaning of life
via the quadratic alphabet.

This is the secret that
the Griffin craves,
but this is something
preternaturally beyond
his knowing.

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