Neptune Frost

February 11, 2015

I have tasted smoke angels on the tip
of oblivion. The angels turned me
like a face and gave me a new name, turned
my face like revolution. The moon swung free,

a headstone without a name. I was the cold,
cold King of the sea, star in my palm burning
like an anthem, like ice on the blue black
sea. I was the tourniquet moon churning

against the burning sea, cold as a soldier's
sleeping feet. Eye to eye, oblivion
turned her burning face, while I wrestled
my nature in the clearing, and a nation

burned like ice on revolving tongues,
turning like a stone where the red moon hung.