First Cut Of Roses

[easyeverett]

The first cut
of roses
are in bloom
and I will
see them soon,
very soon.

They float
in a bowl
of Arctic ice-flow;
regarded highly
by the local Wal-Mart
feng shui
master Mr. Kim.

Made to hang and share
the air
with antebellum
paintings
of imagination mansions;
holding common court,
side by side,
with ancient saints
from former papal dynasties.

The sweet scent
of first bloom perfume,
exaggerated
in all three,
becomes, too soon,
disguised, sour, funerary
aromas of terminus musk.

Can these murdered
roses face rage
from the pastel haze
of entryway
Nirvana?

When contradiction changes
or rearranges
thought,
immutable miracles might
become imbued beyond the common wrought.

You attained an interdiction
of proportional catastrophes
which indirectly praises
all the phases
of old Rome's historic papacies.

The dead red roses float
in symbiotic sacrifice
to long dead religions
and a joyous old South.

The new South seduced
by orgiastic myth,
reproduced,
to promote fevered pleasure
in sycophant seekers
of false history.

I found displayed
all the rages
of the ages
on the pages
in their own time -
placed by decision
of revisionist mind.

Integrity of lust,
indisputably pure
until sated
by objectified cure.

Then lost again
in retrieval of memory.

Now contaminated, fully,
by casual indoctrination
causing idiosyncratic
immolation of synaptic integration.

A self-destructive, cultural,
(Homo Sapiens specific)
neurotic guilt is causal.

Is there somewhere
hidden in forbidden
abandoned lands
a gated, grisly city,
sealed and shut
by rusted spikes?

Leaning there
among the rot
of citrus fruit
in the sultry
dusk of time -

Eden -
forsaken ruination of a city;
the failed garden of God.