Dudlied I

I.
Across the Atlantic Ocean, on trains across salt flats & rocky mountains,
A man on a tall white horse, the perfect strength, blond with electric eyes,
Beaming beneath a tall white hat, traveling West across deserts & mountains,
Dudley Lawrence! The Perfect! The Cowboy Prophet! The Lover! The Searcher!
He seeks his wife as the roaming sun seeks its Pacific sleep!

Jewels & precious rocks adorn her cagings,
Her leaden gyves are gold! her chains are turquoise!
Reposing upon a couch, a comfortable poise
For one eternally imprisoned by war’s ravagings.
Cecelia Murra hears a holy noise,
A whispering of angels, semblances
Of mighty melody disturb her penance,
And thru the stone-encrusted bars she glances,
A mote of light can flash beyond the fence,
Or a chance of rain in a leprechaun's lens,
A gate of love, a strange change rouses any
Of the least somnambulant dozers from their bed,
The one is just a congress of the many,
So did Cecelia Murra raise her head
And squinted her auburn eyes towards the void,
Black oil on black, embroidered with henna,
An asteroid descending on a crater,
But all she saw was her reflection; later,
She cast a single penny out of her pen
Towards the distant harmonies, to sate her
Waxing curiosity, but black oil on black again
Responded to her isolated investigation.

Cecelia Murra! her lips are pale! her hair is a gown!
Bustles of dark red locks escaping from every gap in the bars!
Her hair is a gown of wine poured from a sacred carafe into a ground of mouths!
It is an agricultural fertilizer, it is the foundation of civilization,
Inside her entrappings, Cecelia Murra reposes on couches of crystal,
Her hair flows from the sofa, along the cage floor, & spills into the darkness,
Mystic doodlings of cherry strings blowing slowly in the void’s wind,
She cannot see the split ends, they recede into the distance!
Her horizon is her red hair vanishing to the night’s furthest reaches!