they were as fooled, circling around me as if
I could walk on water, they even had me
in the grips of their belief,
flattering my weak soul ever searching for
a noble word, a kind nod, a proof somewhere on the earth,
that it too was of the human stock.
they: this race of masters that lifteth up their heads,
because they had perceived within
that distinction between themselves and animals,
who lacking all, live more nobly, nonetheless than kings.
as gods, men walk the earth
while sirens stretches the aire
and these folks duck their heads under their arms,
to forget the promise of what they once were,
to deny the reality of the lie that they are now;
and flatter each other with platitudes of meritocracy,
glistening with the sweat of pulsating neurons teeming with
electrons searing the blood--the emerging melody at times a counterpoint, a complement,
a contradiction to the ever wailing siren that stalks the street and rents the aire and
that heralds what type of gods we have become,
lost, in a state of emergency while our souls walk the earth
searching for a place to cometh home to.
and suddenly someone saids,
I'm really a nobody, as if we had all forgotten.
see the way we lift up and knock down,
a ritual of peerage abuse,
of equalization of the classes, or reminding each other
of just who and what exactly we are;
and when I wake out of the swoon of flattery,
having been knock off the pedestal which I had alloweth
you all to situate me onto,
I can smile, because I never forgot who I was...
like Picasso, I can walk through the room and astound you,
yet always I'm remembering how slowly the blood runs through my veins day by day,
as my heart slows down err the day cometh
when the tollgates shall meet me, and I cry out for
mercy, clutching the hem of my guardian angel.
And the conceit of the god peerage
shall either be loosed or binded more tightly
around my soul.
this day that cometh, I never shall forget that it awaits me there, not afar off,
but extant in the shadows--when I'm pumping my arms
exalting in this bittersweet life, the victories handed me,
and those earned, and those hard fought for, and those lost, and
stolen from my grasp, and those I have stolen from others.
as god, I shall confront the conceit of this soulless peerage,
which shall either be loosed or binded more tightly,
and my fate sealed forevermore.
14 September 2007
thyself the fool dresseth for the holiday of peerage
01 September 2007
the mark of the enemy
thou O Lord
hath to me given succor
I tended you as the moon waxed red
wondering if the day will be noted
whence cometh the end
somehow, though wounded as if slayed
I manage walking, and the wound which marketh me
does not undo me, and only by thy grace is this miracle
to be possible
the wisdom you've given to men, my Lord, these men
who are fools for you, my Lord, like angels they
are-- even though earth bound, and full of iniquity,
your love holds them fast, that the harm thy inflict by
their own wounds do not slay the flock entrusted to their care; then
the fools in tattered rags, hidden in caves, the seers of all the world,
spit upon by all the world, their prayers reaching heaven on our behalf
we together, separately in our own cells,
fighting the wounds of the enemy and the wounds of our own inclinations
I stood afar off, my Lord, scoffing, bewildered, by the precise
placement of the lance, and my heart uplifted by you, managed
to stay the tongue of ingratitude; to not complain too loudly
this time
to not hate or desire revenge too ardently,
this time,
to learn to say forgive him Lord, as I beg your forgiveness, my God
and by his prayers grant me the grace of heaven
but most times I walk shell shocked
seeing the mark of the enemy in everyone.
14 August 2007
Gratitude of the Dead
what is this?
the worshipping after deliverance
the prostration before the throne that walkest before us
the day shining brightly amongst the dark clouds
the shadow retreating as though bitten by light
the way a dog, rabid, retreats when it realises
it has lost the fight
relief, is that it?
these dead bones, this flesh, crawling
with iniquity, finds itself considering prostration
for the birthright has not been grasped from her,
the Champion arrived on the throne of His steed
fought the dread enemy for her, and she prostrates herself
before Him, burning nonetheless...fighting the impulse to betray
to go about her day as if it was
just another day
All He asks for is the conversation with Him,
the communion of kin by adoption
but I find that I'm too busy even for that
a fool seeing Gold as painted tin.
11 August 2007
Iago Wearing the Cossack Speaks
he took him aside
all the while recording twas he
every word i said, in my days of braggadacio
and plotting my downfall, a clergy clad Iago
and I fell thinking that principle would be honoured
but his heart is cold, and riddled with the sickness
I will not become like him I swore as he
led my champion into the private rooms
and spoke to him of things,
told in a moment of unwise vain thoughts about myself
and poison he put in his heart, poison he poured in
craftily under the cloak of the Lord he professes to serve
and deftly did he pour it, odorless, colorless it sank deep
and pricked
and now my choices are what type of death would I care to
live
19 July 2007
Old Tyme Religion
shadows from light
carved face cliffs and crevices
in her soul, though still
only an maiden Old
before her time
the madness encircled her,
surrounded her in isolaton
shadows bespoke terrors
faceless old men drunk with power
wraiths around her bed
singing songs about the south land
suspicious crones with the power
of the whipping post
sit idly at times
thinking
18 July 2007
the compulsion of bells at the proffered Hand
her thin pages, for
in the stillness of swells
the compulsion of ringing
bells light, sounds pure
through the aire, and the world
stops as if mesmerized, and all
the finery rustling, the dames and
gentlemen the children opened
mouth silent the Hand is profferred
and who shall have the courage to
accept it. the Creature is moved to write a tale.
Come Hither
come hither
thou who dares
a fair word shall you peruse
when doubt clouds your dark
soul in chains wisped strung
and freedom rings like
shadowed bells in the late
dawn of night where the moon
rises and the spirit is roused
and what then, shall you cry out to God
and would you then be able to
grasp the proffered Hand?
