God help me, I yearn for dead things.

The Redneck Sonnets IX

Cyclically I begin the meditation: 
God help me, I yearn for dead things. 
A yearning for Al-Ghayb, stability 
of morphing earth, falling fyre from trees, like 
the sailor’s cosmic map, the hour hand is 
my Polaris.

Now painter! Hear and listen, these are the 
directions for your next piece:
Twelve anvuls of Drenski to fill autumnal
air; six anvuls of harmonious Vurnisk 
to sow the sky with cream, three anvuls of 
Kredinsk for the breasts of flitted craw-beaks, 
and small specks of Greniski—three quarters 
anvul—to catch her winklers and tops. For 
the glory of our Gods is creation, 
and your glory is the fine flesh between—
those brilliant consanguinities of 
triunic ardor—sweat of eternal
seven days. 

And my glory is you. It was always 
you. To know you deeply. And to cry out, in
prayer, your name which is the essence of 
all names, that beautiful code, 
nucleotidiamos de Theotokos. 
Until the gay angel laughs, and every
thing that is moving is frozen in its 
movement.
We give