Neplusultra

Neplusultra
A poem by Talyn Forman

For Stacie.

Someday,
There will be children born
Who will never taste, smell, or know death

Their heat will bloom forever,
Like the kiss of the Amaranth

They will watch lightning
Declare itself in the sunrise,
While their eyes will burst
With the blue of pure amphetamines,
Ringing dry in the Unicorn’s mane,
Or they will seeth brown as rich,
As the untouched cocao baking in the Ivory Coast summer,
Or a green as primal, as the tiger’s deepest leash.

All coming forth like fireworks,
Raping, and gutting themselves
Into diamonds
A shining infinon, like September’s
True redemption

And their love,
Shall lay time bare

Their wings
Will beat in flawless harmony,
To their .10 gauge hearts,
And their ballistica carbon tears

And they will pulse a feverish white,
Like a crystalline cocaine,
Uncut pixies of liberty breathing life
Into their wings

And their love,
Shall lay time bare

They will blink themselves,
Between the stars,
And every scar they receive
Will put forth on to their bodies
Another color of a rainbow,
That sears, and lacerates itself through the sky

And their love
Shall lay time bare

Someday,
Their will be children born
Who will never taste, smell, or know death

They will spike Casablanca lilies through
Their ears,
Wrap freedoms of faith around their ankles,
And drink wine from heavy ale glasses,
While their eye lashes will smell of copra,
And beef as blood orange

And their love
Shall lay time bare

Their muscles,
Greased titans of anti-matter,
And attoseconds,
Are tightened,
And toned by a million decades of swimming
Through sparks,
Spit by sound-splitting,
Bullets made of liquid oxygen,
That they fire at each other in 160 hour clips,
But only for sport competition,
Because they know nothing of war

And their love,
Shall lay time bare

And euphoria,
No longer compressed, pressed, and impressed,
But now color drops of highest dialation dripping forth,
Splinters of prizms

They are pure,
They are the Merchants of light,
They are the Merchants of Methyl,
They are the Merchants of Manna

Someday,
There will be children born
who will never taste, smell, or know death,

They are your children,
They are your parents children,
And our love shall lay time bare

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