I, The Inheritance
The Righteous Spring of amorous,
lovely renewal, and a spectated verse of
script and death... crypt and breath.
Twenty 20 years ago back, to before the new century, myself was born.
A brother of the simultaneous second. We were an accompanying bead on a rotation myth.
A spectre of stars. Who shouldn’t get royalties(and who is royal; brings it into the family)
and who gets love?
The First 1st to the present and the present to 2 the latter. Have you seen it..
I’ve got synesthesia of the personalities! It’s harmful
how we were conceived- Non-Greeks- but under a sea of charms and shining dietics with
-and Voynich le Bon.
at what hour is our father, the flower, no immersed in sparkling gold chains with the rest and the almighties? It says my uncle, whom I was black bearded for a year or some few finance of lapse-
he said: Be Published
or Be Rubbish.
We switched very eloquently-
a gift from a cosmos younger but established on a higher plane-
vibrance and all!
A gifted lurch,
with an aquarius smile and
an awkward vocal.
The Black days are the white days, and the white R hell alike.
I’m carrying municipal charades of jest, so very so intricately infinite that the 4th comes before the 5th to cite a significant surface influence.
‘‘And your mother says that Yee ate on yer Second Coming, and down by a rune you were bathing in some esoteric spring.
Come now and let us curse off my language, the 2(two) syllables, saying that I eal if you root a comma before the ego.
Curse out Fass! -put after the former expression, and quit with your starry; so algebraic with the emotions they seem to come placed with the strokes of other powerful mediums of material, say metaphysical
With tomes titled
‘Land of the Fraction Dollar’ let’s meditate- not with a heel up our ass.
The casted is a sinister phony,
equal of admirating respect for violence- and hateful disenlightenment-And don’t worry what the words mean to me, you!
We’ll have potatoes
for an Irish Springs
Full hearted nostalgia, with precedence for our president- a red flagged character to a social list on conserved lives.
Let us now take Enoch’s
III, Lap and Couch
A paris of Northeastern Bulb.
Aura of Harlem, and witchcraft of Staten Island. I’ve been there twice. Islamoralda’s coven of lanterns and sheepskin feather.
-We’re all here. Yes,
and Bright like flower face radiation catastrophe! Beautiful outburst of Apollo.
Day of the sour, Algonquian milk.
and pretentious four(for) all of the errors and miscalculated heartbeats… How different I would have been- a patriarch and an angel’s acrylic halo relieved from my humble scalp.
And in every way it was like a hymn. We came in with the tide, and back out with a counterfeit wash. A layered mirror, strict in the manner of a pendulum that swings with something as determined as a young boy, and so walked in the white collared shadow.
And on with a boy of Wolfgang Amadeus
We would swell up
and touch the bottom layer with our foreheads just to where(wear) we could a feather away from comprehension of the top.
Here because of tea, and in essence- his presence- of the GREAT 3, to, of course- sharks of SANITY…
gardeners of the heart’s daisy.
We would see plankton… and drift into them for weeks, and for lifetimes that is what we were. And for lifetimes we were currents, pushed by breathes of God.
ungodly compassion… as the race for irony continues and gives us tremendous heartache
I saw the distorting fragments… and all who hated me and the ones on the other side who were buried, and up tall. A chariot of disinterested orange blaze… which marks some new intellectual prophet
with inverse heavens of thought, and outdoors writing.
A claustrophobic lymeric that always blurred my eyes.
So call ‘F for Dynamite; and beautiful staircases for uninterpreted romantic.’
V, Sun Coloured beautfiul
We could feel the orange in our fingers,
and coats on the wall hanger,
and at the end of the day
we were happy.
Blue texture on top of a tropical prose, together, we were in hats, and in hotels. A region of red can infest the hives of the intellectuals. Together can we walk down avenues and kiss on boulevards, next to lips. We’re pots made of clay, and poets made of yarn,
with sinew in our bones
with flowers in our eyes.
It’s bright, obvious and untalented.
Sun Coloured and Beautiful.
Are you going to come over, and do you want to?
We can have sex with our eyes to get it over. We’re twisted and ugly, and dark with -ality, not of a dove’s kiss, but a shameful cradle, lusting for a clock’s tick to send us to dull thoughts and work.
Hey… Hello, wake up .
I’m here at the window.
Ear or Frame?
Ear or wooden Frame?
flesh, calm down,
and in whose spawn do you come?
Pan, and that of
your uncle, Azazel.
Elijah Midgette is seventeen years old and attends Cape Hatteras High School. He lives in the small fishing village of Rodanthe, North Carolina. He writes poetry, and plays sports but does not like them very much, but is good at them. He plans to attend Davidson College, and very much likes the poetry of Yeats, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Elliot, Pound, and Verlaine.