http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/o...ellFailure.png

And they came to make their catastrophic reparations
waywardly walking down the stratospheric stairs
straight into the wake of our desperation
singling out the stars, one by one,
we dared not turn our faces to those frowning prophets
letting ourselves wait for an easier salvation
despite that we were helplessly drowning in
our own appetites, brazen starvation
crowning ourselves with the comfort and the leisure
blinking at the candlelight
thinking we could survive the restoration.

speaking wind
we named you

glimpsing the specters of light
we found them

thus giving birth to our gods of dust

Hades
Lord of the Uttermost
our cold lonesome exile
dancing through eternity on the shores of Styx

Poseidon
upon thy formless throne
aloof majesty
indifferent to aeons as they pass above your darksome seas

Ouranos
towering image of titans
castrated divinity
so far fallen from the dominions of the sky

Kronos
halo'd maverick of heaven
cloaked in poison
your children yet elude your devouring lusts

Zeus
awe and reverence manifest
sovereign tyrant
with the whipping tempest as your crown

Ares
harsh visage of honor
red-stained spear
hold fast the carrion-blessed slopes of Olympus

Gaea
breathless mother
moment's mercy
we are your self-sacrifice to the seasons of your love

Aphrodite
foam-born sister
inhuman beauty
ever gleaming mortal temptations to the night

Hermes
grey-clad harbinger
speaking silver
you are a silhouette of glory, shadow of splendor

And beyond

fell Horus-Ra
greater than your magnificence
foreign lord of foreign powers
oblivious to your mythology


And we
here to remain
children of the fire
making gods from dust
living at the whim of the sun

To write is to localize living deterministic deviation meditation medication to live is to make mystery of motion subsistence resistance ignition insistence to move is to register recognition ellipses elation damnation inflation to recognize is to discover distance peril persistence existence assistance to discover is to excite experience feral frustration sensation sedation

You pass me petals with your cracking hands
I swallow blessings in the light of hunching eyes
The tremors begin again
You have found for me a substitute for Paradise
This moment tastes of glass and dust
A shudder, harbinging the plummet of a sigh
Your fingers on my flesh beseech a hollow
Such sufficiency, this touch of old skin and braided hair
Taut the noose you dress upon my neck
There are dear memories in the grasp that holds my wrists
A patient friend in this reverent knife

I fall

Knees catch me, and I shatter
And the waves are upon me now
I feel the echoes of some other soul's salvation
Wishes fly from me
Thoughts break upon the distant shore
A visionary tongue trembles at my ear
Sights awaken of so many delicate destinies
I have forgotten my purpose
A horizon bleeds, while a world turns its back
And I succumb, beaten down with awe
How can I endure
this forceful unity with God?

No longer looking for
tangible miracles
tired of seeking those
moments of splendor, those
times more sublime, and we're
riding the red-shift express to a
satisfactory destruction, so I'm
gnawing on the heels of entropy, wondering how
an Nth-dimensional God could
make such a basic mistake, while I
trudge through the puddles of
mercury rain, while I
trip over somebody's
obsolete fetus, following a
blood-trail of better ideas, passing the
Chelsea-grinning husks one by one,
and with all this space to kill,
all these atoms to appreciate, I pause...


...remembering what it is to remember to smile
as I catch sight of Christ in the clouds

It's the systematic semantic weather-proof convoluted upside-down inexcisable profuse reclusive dance-shattering miasmatic hallow-whispering vestal tradition rationalized through decaying memetic diacritc structures all turning on radio-telescopic mish-mash ventriloquism masquerading with details of palpable grandeur. It's the non-conseqeunces, the inextricable bias-free two-faced forsaken sheltering in livid dreamscapes mounting schismatic art on walls of inarticulate bone and stone, the revival of a spiraling inclination to sun-seared mediocrity bleeding oxygen to save the world from a gift-wrapped anodyne-by-suicide. And there's meteoric significance in things rescinded, lacking a possible prophet we turn to poultry oracles for reassurance, damning the inadequacy of evidence-in-testament, of the obvious-in-transit, a.k.a. a fist-in-the-face, laughing while the library burns on white-washed customs your grandfather died for.

I am to walk the country of dead men
with a ration of splintered glass
and a canteen ruined by bullet-holes.
Already, the air abhors me.
I have made a crutch of sick and wearied bones,
thigh and pelvis set with stains of life,
and I find I lack the strength to gasp.
They have hung a terrible stone from my neck.
This journey is lit by only the suggestion of a sun.

I take the first step.
I tremble with mortality
and falter.
No genius mind compels a corpse to walk.
This is what I have become
a locus for suffering.

Now sutured to the earth
a mesmerized visionary
feeling the thoughts of my own blood
as the hammers of God beat me down
and all that I have lost becomes my muse

I see... so much.

The propulsion of stardust.
The internecine romance of gravity.
I watch the seed of the world
blossom with ephemera.
Microbes in unfathomable armies,
the arc of the universe bent on their death,
the singularity of life
and on.

I see the first smile.
The first magical tea party.
The first awkward kiss at the bus stop on a rainy Monday.
The first fireworks.

But there's more. There is far more,
and I should be so privileged.

I see the first time a man laces up his own noose.
The first little girl to drown in the swimming pool.
The first best friend to die in a car crash.
The first backyard abortion.

And this is where I am,
this nation of carrion with its unknowable sky.
Nothing here is not naked.

The blasted-out skulls of child-soldiers.
The beggars and the brain-dead, every cannibal of sympathy,
miniature kings with uranium crowns.
All the churches reeking of napalm and salvation.
Recreational murder.
A soccer riot. A chemically-castrated priest. A death-insurance salesman.
A pair of slit wrists holding hands.


I would ask the sky, but this stone shall suffice.

How... how is this for me?

This is how it is
to breathe winter,
to capture the last of those warm dusks
in an inescapable sigh.
An endless letting-go.

And the aurora is so cold,
describing the name
of this inanimate sky
as I sit among a trifling solace,
a rare, pristine devastation
and contemplate art,
my only company that
distant eagle's cry
and the patient seduction of the water.

But ever to return to the waking,
the dismal structures
of this material cosmos –
bastion of all my weariness,
the perpetual beckon
to the imprisonment of a heart.

Here, the hostel of dimming days,
this asylum of my disrepair,
my still-life,
filled with the unfailing echo
of those stifling breaths,
of self-destroying honesty

and damnation in dreams.

I find once more these hostage hours
as the breath of days held in
bringing to birth a fugue
of dislocated thoughts
myself abstained
shot through with penumbrae
in a rage of shameful particles
precipitate to dawn
exposed in oblivion like all the other souls
in this mortal convent
this alive antiquity of forlorn minds
companion to infinity
distressed by absolutes
and the indifference of the rain
patterned to weep at the intrinsic
yet shielded from my self-destruction
by a vehemence of impossible compassion
as I mourn the unknowable
in this scattered meditation
as I shiver untouchable
in distant deprivation
as I remain unbreakable
for now....

Of that era, short in sight of time,
so woven with gray grandeur in
the fog of parting years I now
give voice, and dip this mused quill
unto the depth of 'spired thought
to scribe of majesties forgone,
upon beaten knees in sight of
greater souls, and thus begin,
in visionary breath found nightly
wing'd, departing swift, to speak
such fleeting words as riven minds
can so contrive, in weal of weariness,
my spirit held in hostel grave
to etch this testament unto the iron skein.

In those dim days, upon the wand'ring world,
whence man had not the wit to dream,
and the ravens did repose, there came
the nascent call of war, bleak stranger
to those starving lands, those meager lords,
who in such surfeit of survival knew
in languor of peace between and of themselves
not will nor wraith of that grim flame that
so rives the mighty temples of inconstant times
and maketh thus these lands anew.

So heralded by rising winter storms
and icy gloaming eve, came he,
unbridled from the 'placent bit,
bedress'd and arm'd for woeful clime,
with scepter'd sword and forged gown,
those shoulders meet to bear the mantle
of monarchy unyielding, imperious command,
and the reformation of all mien of life,
that specter borne on tempest's frigid gale,
his whisper bringing realms to heel,
that titan cast in gray-dusk shroud
against a far horizon's doom,
sighing empires to life, and thus called:
the Archon.

I am not the one you should be listening to


only nothing
and
you
and your lonely

exaltation

because you just never were

and you'll never be
and you couldn't be
and you shouldn't be

and you don't think it's fair

but I'm here to tell you stranger
yes beloved outcast


And we
no one


and we learned to like the pain
we learned
to wash it down with mercury (memory)
we learned
to fight if off with sorcery (sympathy)
we learned

never asked for anything
never gave you anything
never looked at you
heard you
helped you
hurt you








because you can't learn anything
can't love anything

you want to be there for me

so I'll say it again