Morning Shave

The razor unrust
Tries a close shave
On the veins
With its sharp and smooth fangs.
Devoid of poison they are.
Can be trusted well.
Eyebrows quiver for a sweep.
A Beard and moustache
On the swollen face, run jealous.
Flies all over the skin of such
Stupid dead coldness.
Silence unleashed.
Tap leaks, on wash,
Drip on the feet.
Spits take the shape
Of an abstract witch
To soothe the open lips
Of the wounds --
Eye ball of a lioness
Dipped in the blood of a bat
Stirred with the nails of a vulture --
Everything failed.
Driving towards nowhere,
Headlights blind the eyes.
Stars shower in abstract vision.
Some discreet sound
Of spades gripping on
The sand and clay
Dig a grave.
Already a skull under --
Archeological fossil --

Intervenes.
Laughs out loud,
Pro-cynically,
To welcome my silk-sulking 

Jocund company,
With a vaunt vanity of piousness.
Its teeth are of emerald green
Glares like the  stupefied cameo
With bottoms up
Of  aborigin wishes.
"Good luck",
A frozen black rosebud,

Rarest in her breed,
Sends me off, 

Cleanly shaven.

Amen!

Hail to the lighest touch of the fingers
To muse the estranged to usher
Life!
Thy heart is a heart
Thy soul is a soul
Staright from the anvil
Of the firmament King --
And all hath thee
Do mean to conquer, only.
The triumph over Time
Hath made thy hands run chivalrous.
Hark! there are polished nails
Atop thy graceful fingers
Which maketh thy hands,
When collected together
In the pit of it men dip their hearts,
Flaunt their souls,
To call 'em all thine.
A little carelesslessness doth run
hearts and souls thus made fat
Susceptible to a fatal prick of such nails
That broods eternally of
Unshackled whoozing of blood oozing
out of the lips of the writhing wounds.
"Time, may luck speed thee"!
You cry within
With etherial bliss of gratification
And salvation.

Alas! thou hast a tougue
That dare unravel the shroud
Over uncanny truths you are proud to possess of,
But cannot lick
The blood clean
Until it floods out and chokes to freeze into
The silhouette of a red, red rose
To tend one cenotaph of a
Dead man still walking.
The ope lips of poignant draught wounds
Cry for thy tounge to be lent
So to speak and they aspire for
The last drop of water
From thy envious fingers
Pointing the earth
To allegorize only
A decent burial.
Ironic! --
Thee raise thine hands with
Clean fingers to celebrate the
Chivalry of the gorgeous triumph
concieved of thee.
Dame! Only thy hast a soul
Only a heart hast thee!
Kneel!
Amen!