Monday, September 14, 2009

Poetry Year September 6th - September 14th

September 6th

All is still,
Distilled, and still yet pure in essence,
Until symmetry, that fearful mistress of the classic age,
A bitch of virgin god for virgin god,
Chaste and cold, balanced and blind,
While seeing all she ought to now,
Breaks into pieces
That bounce and shatter across the faded flowers
On the floor of stone,
Etched by some forgotten craftsman,
Unto the specifications set,
By some matron who,
Enriched by her frigid sex,
Gave orders in another age.

People were shorter then, and now
The walls feel quaint to taller miens.
But here I am home to homeless,
Because it was a time,
That was proportioned
To my figure face and features.

I touch the wood,
Varnished to a burnished burnt Siena,
And crystallized to age.

The warmth that all that mistress symmetry
And matron history,
Both lacked,
Now bubbles through, to my senses.

September 7th

Consumed by a muse of fire,
Sing you goddess, of all the wrath,
That is of men and arms.
Call forth bright consequence,
In that year of our lord 18__
When this manuscript was found,
When once upon a time,
Long long ago, in a galaxy far far away.
All happy families were still alike.
Call me Ishmael or by any other name,
As the clocks are striking thirteen.
There is beginning here,
I am in need of her,
Where Janus needed two faces,
I know you, birth to all things,
Are twinned in every cell.

September 8th

A bitter betrayed generation,
Now turns it's eager gaze down to the meaning of its gyration,
Having lapped up the blood and sinew of the war god's mettle,
Having crushed the bone and flesh to pulp and fragment,
Now urges to feast upon the very life of the life that is left.

They would rape us of our minds,
And take us of our bodies,
And torment us of our efforts,
That we, poor cogs, might turn turn turn turn
In the wheels of time and tide that accost us in our hour of woe.

We are alone and lost, sheep crying in the wilderness,
Longing to go home without a home,
For there is no house of the holy
To hold us.
It is not our temple that incenses burn in,
Nor to our goddess bright eyed, that smells the smoke,
Of contemplation of a divined time.

Goddess mercy, your black hair cascades around your nape and shoulders,
And down your torso.
My hand grips the charcoal with every anger,
And pastel the streaks that are burned by tears,
The grays of pencil do become,
The shades of mystery that you bear.
I can not draw you forth,
Because I cannot draw you out,
Of which ever cavern you hide within.

Why was he lost to the maw of some forsaken war,
In the graveyard to where empires go to die?

September 9th

September I look into your eyes with jealousy,
The torrent of garland bright fallen leaves
A garland around your eyes, focused forward
On the swirls of clouds that crunch low on the horizon.
I stare at your perfect form, the dream of dreams,
And the locus of lusts that have many names.

I see the men around me want you in all your features and forms,
And bear to penetrate your darkness, all your darknesses.
They crave to fuck your mouth,
That fountain stop of words, and so to gag the eloquence,
That thermal months have formed.
They crave to fuck your cunt,
That entrance to immortality, so to copy some portion of their spirit,
Lithe design, on the canvas of your covenant come.
They crave to fuck your ass,
Ripping out the agency of your permission,
And give into that orgiastic desire,
Of war's homoerotic bonding,
Which is what they would truly have if they could have,
That you would be a man, a woman, a thing,
All at once to their crushed perfume.

They do not know you,
As they would know you,
For they do not know themselves.

The flowers of spring must be cut or plucked,
The seeds of summer harvested and shucked.
But the fruits of autumn fall red into eager waiting hands.
Why do you slut yourself this way?

September 10th

Your hands flow,
Over my breasts,
Over the tender pain
That comes to them,
And their prominence
With the coming of my fertility.
Aching wanting to reduplicate
And double
That beautiful face
That gazed down into my eyes
As I was wrapped,
Spasms of pleasure,
Enraptured of a dream.

September 11th

The ageless age that was another age,
When madness reigned,
And words had lost their meaning,
Come let us break the fast,
Over the wheel,
And every law carved in runes or rules,
Is shattered by our perfidity.
Let us remember how the great monument,
To their sacrifice,
Is a deepening pit,
Ruled over by demons speared,
Constitution by Heirony

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
It is flying much too low.
God help them all.

There is a shadow,
It is a plane,
And it is flying much too low.
God help us all.

September 12th

Call me.
I am here, in the voice and the flesh,
For you,
Though we touched
Only through
The keys of the qwerty kingdom
Without a king,
And so delved
Into the queen of spades.
Leaving me
A child of nature to wonder
What it is
Men truly want.

September 13th

It is the end of one world, and the passing away of all it was
A wind that blew the flotsam and jetsam of refuse and anger
On to shores of rejection and need,
Close hold close at far remove
Giving everything for nothing in a place of contact without touch.

Vanquish the ugliness within in ugliness without
To have the empty moanings without pleasure,
Lust without need,
Love without love
Narcissus thy flower blooms in a thousand gardens.

Leaving us here, at the end of this ocean of sweat and sperm
Spatter over the hands of those,
Who would not work to save their lives.
It is a hymn to the end of a world
This world,
The only world they want or know.

Comes it must,
The turning of a page that balances figures,
And having writ, moves on,
Without pity,
Without wit.

September 14th

Somehow she died,
And an altar became
Sacrifice to human depravity,
A space within a wall her tomb,
Touched by cold hand,
Somehow known to her,
That she left behind,
All the keys to her identity.
Leaving a groom holding frail flowers,
Now bleached white
Drained of life and blood,
That is swallowed
Into that pit.

No comments:

Post a Comment