And so and so and so and so
the surf does surge up upon us though
you sleep just beyond its fingers reach
half awake as I comb with mine,
the precious locks that twirl and curl.
This here this place we have washed upon,
this distant Eden flee'd from our Babylon
when once we gazed into an east unfed,
now we look back on a west that is dead,
or dying of its misshapen woes,
reduced to pimping it's children as hoes.
Not even whores any mores,
the r's swallowed like all the pride,
and left with only images inside.
How a privileged people have brough them selves low,
and slip head side to side in half awakened glow.
You now, are that moment where sleep and wakening collide,
the clatter and do battle on your eyelids.
And so I kiss sleep on the right,
and waking on the left,
pondering which shall take this prize.
Will I see the sleeping moon of your soft face?
Or the brightness of your brilliant eyes?
Or will they flutter as they do in this moment gleaming,
when nothing is, and all is seeming.
Before we have roused our selves to find the needs of flesh,
and spirit still tosses us up like foam.
The nerieds of the water unrepressed,
by the weight of this flesh that we bear.
The are the pure spirits of sea, in me,
as you are touched by the lords of the air.
I know this when I watch your mind,
and poetry in its work enthralling,
as each twist and turn you manipulate just so,
to an end unseen, but one you know.
Through your mind, a gale of genius does blow.
Light lithe as my foot prints on this sand
barely etch a trace of passing,
and yet with movement all surpassing,
seem to magically transport from here to there.
I am the sea.
You are the air.
Now I come back bearing fruit,
you stare upwards and then finally,
see.
I curl over you, lost from your exertions,
to save that poor wreckage that was our boat,
as storm ripped through it's tender masts,
and slashed its soft sails.
Finally to smash its sleek hull,
into scraps and shards and splinters.
I strain water into your mouth,
you swallow, and with parched lips
whisper a thanks that is holy thanks,
for this the gift of water that is life,
next to an ocean that was nearly death.
You breath my name, even though the sounds
and syllables, are yet indistinct.
Your gaze meets mine,
and the sugar courses like a drug through you.
You long to drink another nectar.
Come with me, come with me,
come and voyage on my inner sea.
Showing posts with label Goddess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Goddess. Show all posts
Friday, August 15, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Inner Sea
Canto IV
Night is it's own poetry,
That flourishes with falling dawn,
The clock ticks backward to the sun.
Bright a shining darkness,
That gives truth to all your lies.
It was a sweeter love,
Than could in hours be known.
Night is its own logic,
It's rules define the steps
In sunlit lands,
And by membrane wings takes flight.
Day is cometh not.
Day is coming not.
We stand amiss
Look leeward
At storm's abyss.
Gulf as chasm
Inward spasm
All that we have made.
Kiss
My cheek with the strength of urgency,
And your wave of ages,
Spurning life, to live.
In me.
For of this canyon,
We both know,
You will not see the other side.
Night is its own memory,
That calls and cometh.
Rivers runeth toward that inner
Ocean that is me.
Distant to a distant sea.
Call me through the eyes of your son.
He will rise,
His gaze will be your light.
You are destined arrows of Apollo,
The armies of Ashur consume him,
The offal beneath the desolate sea,
That sand with waves is made.
That fertile crescent
that all your sun gods,
all your son gods,
strive to take from that mountain.
They light the darkness and shriek the silence,
And are blazing stars in bitter blanket dark.
The stream like rats, through metal torn a twain.
They surge through every gap and chink
And rip the life from blood and bone.
But it is the blood, bitter blood,
That shall claim more cities,
Than even Apollo might build.
What may will you will,
Do what deeds done you must,
When all is spoken,
And all is written,
It will be my writing on the wall.
The priestesses from long ago
Long ago they knew this.
The mensual calendar binds them all
And in the darkness binds them.
The ageless eating of the eyeless multitude,
That shall make you,
That shall take you
Come what may.
That which is once with us,
Blazes glory,
Another story,
Closed before it's made.
All your bullets will not do the work of one cut of mine.
From which I bleed.
We are all born,
Under unusual circumstances.
Turn as I might,
Stretch my body so,
Open fully,
Riven totally,
Spanned unto your delve.
What Eve and Lilith knew,
And so utterly I know.
While your world is aging,
And making age of ages,
I am making younger,
Youth.
That fresh bloom of apples,
That his cheeks shall find there,
That come from blossoms
That only I bear.
But fruit is plucked and made to sweetness
And that is fruition, it is so.
He is will be,
Still and always your son.
That thing you bear
That crucifies you,
That one and only one thing I cannot give,
That which moves him,
In circles far from safe.
It is there it is there that is there,
I cannot go there with him.
Odes I could write,
To that one thing,
That I can feel as heat,
But never inner reach as glow.
That one thing I can hear,
In every breath and movement,
But can never know.
All sons are royal sons,
We swaddle or bath them with our tears.
The are are our explosion,
That reaches beyond our flesh.
For as you give that gift that makes you you,
So I know in my infancy of cunning goddess logic,
That in him I slay your mother,
And all the mothers before her,
And set my lineage on his stone.
This I knew,
My mother's in Babylon,
Wrote it too.
This they knew,
This they know in me,
This will be all that is known.
Come goddess, sing,
And memory must speak.
You can sing of arms,
But it is my arms that hold him.
This you must believe,
And this you must know.
That Night is another rhythm,
That sinks and swells
With tides laid out distant
In ages from primeval wash.
Brine that stings us still.
But how is this night different from all others?
In this night, that sun is born,
That will some day with memory born
Rise.
The bonds that bind us,
The moments finds us,
The moon she smiles on me.
Her redemption,
beyond mention,
immortality's flow.
Because hear me here and
listen.
Even as you are mesmerized by primal
glisten.
Your cities will burn of cold fire,
and pale are their faces,
factories steaming,
spires gleaming,
distant walks alone.
All will be taken in swallowed up,
in a winter within close.
Night is its own fate,
karmismatic as they are.
He is one
and always
your son.
Nothing takes this,
nothing slakes this,
but the one who after me comes.
I am vessel for him,
as he is the clouds and river,
for all the ones like me.
So it is so it is and so it must and ever will be.
Your God would have us say.
Amen.
That flourishes with falling dawn,
The clock ticks backward to the sun.
Bright a shining darkness,
That gives truth to all your lies.
It was a sweeter love,
Than could in hours be known.
Night is its own logic,
It's rules define the steps
In sunlit lands,
And by membrane wings takes flight.
Day is cometh not.
Day is coming not.
We stand amiss
Look leeward
At storm's abyss.
Gulf as chasm
Inward spasm
All that we have made.
Kiss
My cheek with the strength of urgency,
And your wave of ages,
Spurning life, to live.
In me.
For of this canyon,
We both know,
You will not see the other side.
Night is its own memory,
That calls and cometh.
Rivers runeth toward that inner
Ocean that is me.
Distant to a distant sea.
Call me through the eyes of your son.
He will rise,
His gaze will be your light.
You are destined arrows of Apollo,
The armies of Ashur consume him,
The offal beneath the desolate sea,
That sand with waves is made.
That fertile crescent
that all your sun gods,
all your son gods,
strive to take from that mountain.
They light the darkness and shriek the silence,
And are blazing stars in bitter blanket dark.
The stream like rats, through metal torn a twain.
They surge through every gap and chink
And rip the life from blood and bone.
But it is the blood, bitter blood,
That shall claim more cities,
Than even Apollo might build.
What may will you will,
Do what deeds done you must,
When all is spoken,
And all is written,
It will be my writing on the wall.
The priestesses from long ago
Long ago they knew this.
The mensual calendar binds them all
And in the darkness binds them.
The ageless eating of the eyeless multitude,
That shall make you,
That shall take you
Come what may.
That which is once with us,
Blazes glory,
Another story,
Closed before it's made.
All your bullets will not do the work of one cut of mine.
From which I bleed.
We are all born,
Under unusual circumstances.
Turn as I might,
Stretch my body so,
Open fully,
Riven totally,
Spanned unto your delve.
What Eve and Lilith knew,
And so utterly I know.
While your world is aging,
And making age of ages,
I am making younger,
Youth.
That fresh bloom of apples,
That his cheeks shall find there,
That come from blossoms
That only I bear.
But fruit is plucked and made to sweetness
And that is fruition, it is so.
He is will be,
Still and always your son.
That thing you bear
That crucifies you,
That one and only one thing I cannot give,
That which moves him,
In circles far from safe.
It is there it is there that is there,
I cannot go there with him.
Odes I could write,
To that one thing,
That I can feel as heat,
But never inner reach as glow.
That one thing I can hear,
In every breath and movement,
But can never know.
All sons are royal sons,
We swaddle or bath them with our tears.
The are are our explosion,
That reaches beyond our flesh.
For as you give that gift that makes you you,
So I know in my infancy of cunning goddess logic,
That in him I slay your mother,
And all the mothers before her,
And set my lineage on his stone.
This I knew,
My mother's in Babylon,
Wrote it too.
This they knew,
This they know in me,
This will be all that is known.
Come goddess, sing,
And memory must speak.
You can sing of arms,
But it is my arms that hold him.
This you must believe,
And this you must know.
That Night is another rhythm,
That sinks and swells
With tides laid out distant
In ages from primeval wash.
Brine that stings us still.
But how is this night different from all others?
In this night, that sun is born,
That will some day with memory born
Rise.
The bonds that bind us,
The moments finds us,
The moon she smiles on me.
Her redemption,
beyond mention,
immortality's flow.
Because hear me here and
listen.
Even as you are mesmerized by primal
glisten.
Your cities will burn of cold fire,
and pale are their faces,
factories steaming,
spires gleaming,
distant walks alone.
All will be taken in swallowed up,
in a winter within close.
Night is its own fate,
karmismatic as they are.
He is one
and always
your son.
Nothing takes this,
nothing slakes this,
but the one who after me comes.
I am vessel for him,
as he is the clouds and river,
for all the ones like me.
So it is so it is and so it must and ever will be.
Your God would have us say.
Amen.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Inner Sea
Canto II
I am your slut, your slave, your total whore.
All of this, and more and more,
consumed by phantom ecstacy,
lost a drift on inner sea.
You torque my arms up and stretch chain me
to the boards, pulled taut and strained,
my muscle tremor and rattle my joints,
my elbows shake in pain and shoulders scream,
my arms cry in outrage as they slip from moorings.
You yank the manacles aroudn my ankles slipped,
tearing at the bounds between my legs and hips,
and straining to that miraculous curve,
that is my sex exposed and bound to serve.
And so it is, so I am, so it must be,
the spray and salt washes over me,
it's sparkling acid pain upon my skin
and sharp irritation of my eyes.
My head flails from side to side.
I say taht one word over and over again.
No. No. No. No. No. No.
That means only Yes.
For that is where we are, deep adrift on the gulf of Yes.
Deep fallen lost into the abyss of Yes.
The moon has entered the house of Yes,
and the sun there overtakes her,
and in reverse eclipse consumes her ripened form.
I am exposed, my rose is red,
my pearl you find from within my depths,
and take it in your tongue, rolling the hard bright need
and tasting all that is within me.
I am enflamed, no slat inlet wetness can douse
and feel like other fingers your eyes upon me, roaming
roaming over my body, but fixed with eagle gaze
upon my opening now utterly east and ready for you.
In the sky the warming dawn forgotten,
the bright fair trade winds of early morning
are consumed by glowering clouds of coming cyclone,
that will swirl and smash upon this my small vessel
the one that has carried us this far,
driven before yours gusts and blows.
You drive, drive, drive, chained to your oars
as I am chained to these boards,
the sharp splinters of pain only whet me
and wet me,
and ripple my muscles in anticipation.
The consort queen smiles as her flush spatters on my cheeks,
the welling up of sensation, eager for your rough hewn kiss,
your lips they rape my skin as you rape my body.
And I want nothing else.
This is me. This is me.
A creature of my inner sea.
And my dear, how this must be.
The storm god, trident armed,
now whips the waves to ripping frenzied crests,
and you pour over me.
Drench me.
Drown me.
Your mouth plunges wide upon mine,
Which is opened aching for your tongue
As your other tongue, no longer soft serpentine,
But now a force forged like metal by blows,
Now rushing into my inlet,
Sluicing over every ribbing and weave,
Pounding, pounding, pounding
Unable yet, to relieve, that tension that swells
Swells within you.
Egged on by trident god, you roar and roll
Roar and roll over my flesh, tearing my breasts,
Rending their soft shape in conformance to your desire,
Rounding them beyond the roundness of nature's gift.
You pull me farther farther farther into the rift.
The storm erupts over us, and I am twisted into this shape,
By forces stronger than steel,
More powerful than I know how to command.
We have forgotten the beaches,
We have forgotten the soil,
We are far away, from sight, or sound of land,
And even its memory is swallowed by these swells.
The torrent of winds slices across us,
The flaps of clothes that remain,
Clinging to our bodies as torn sails that brought us here,
Are riven by the flowing air, their hems lash at me.
As the tempest, pushed by trident god,
Pulled by consort queen,
Rattles us and all we are,
The heavens darkened.
The celestial crashes down upon my face,
I see the sky through the drops that fall within my eyes,
A shuttering shift from glooming churning grey
And the blank of splash spray spattered into mine eyes.
I am acid eaten by my inner sea.
There is a rumbling, there is a roar,
My silken thighs are torn by your thrusts,
A pulsing wave rises
And then, there is no more.
The darkness gushes up and hits my inner eyes,
and I drift to sleep listening to the consort queen's lies.
It will be, it must be
and forever wrapped within the inner sea.
All of this, and more and more,
consumed by phantom ecstacy,
lost a drift on inner sea.
You torque my arms up and stretch chain me
to the boards, pulled taut and strained,
my muscle tremor and rattle my joints,
my elbows shake in pain and shoulders scream,
my arms cry in outrage as they slip from moorings.
You yank the manacles aroudn my ankles slipped,
tearing at the bounds between my legs and hips,
and straining to that miraculous curve,
that is my sex exposed and bound to serve.
And so it is, so I am, so it must be,
the spray and salt washes over me,
it's sparkling acid pain upon my skin
and sharp irritation of my eyes.
My head flails from side to side.
I say taht one word over and over again.
No. No. No. No. No. No.
That means only Yes.
For that is where we are, deep adrift on the gulf of Yes.
Deep fallen lost into the abyss of Yes.
The moon has entered the house of Yes,
and the sun there overtakes her,
and in reverse eclipse consumes her ripened form.
I am exposed, my rose is red,
my pearl you find from within my depths,
and take it in your tongue, rolling the hard bright need
and tasting all that is within me.
I am enflamed, no slat inlet wetness can douse
and feel like other fingers your eyes upon me, roaming
roaming over my body, but fixed with eagle gaze
upon my opening now utterly east and ready for you.
In the sky the warming dawn forgotten,
the bright fair trade winds of early morning
are consumed by glowering clouds of coming cyclone,
that will swirl and smash upon this my small vessel
the one that has carried us this far,
driven before yours gusts and blows.
You drive, drive, drive, chained to your oars
as I am chained to these boards,
the sharp splinters of pain only whet me
and wet me,
and ripple my muscles in anticipation.
The consort queen smiles as her flush spatters on my cheeks,
the welling up of sensation, eager for your rough hewn kiss,
your lips they rape my skin as you rape my body.
And I want nothing else.
This is me. This is me.
A creature of my inner sea.
And my dear, how this must be.
The storm god, trident armed,
now whips the waves to ripping frenzied crests,
and you pour over me.
Drench me.
Drown me.
Your mouth plunges wide upon mine,
Which is opened aching for your tongue
As your other tongue, no longer soft serpentine,
But now a force forged like metal by blows,
Now rushing into my inlet,
Sluicing over every ribbing and weave,
Pounding, pounding, pounding
Unable yet, to relieve, that tension that swells
Swells within you.
Egged on by trident god, you roar and roll
Roar and roll over my flesh, tearing my breasts,
Rending their soft shape in conformance to your desire,
Rounding them beyond the roundness of nature's gift.
You pull me farther farther farther into the rift.
The storm erupts over us, and I am twisted into this shape,
By forces stronger than steel,
More powerful than I know how to command.
We have forgotten the beaches,
We have forgotten the soil,
We are far away, from sight, or sound of land,
And even its memory is swallowed by these swells.
The torrent of winds slices across us,
The flaps of clothes that remain,
Clinging to our bodies as torn sails that brought us here,
Are riven by the flowing air, their hems lash at me.
As the tempest, pushed by trident god,
Pulled by consort queen,
Rattles us and all we are,
The heavens darkened.
The celestial crashes down upon my face,
I see the sky through the drops that fall within my eyes,
A shuttering shift from glooming churning grey
And the blank of splash spray spattered into mine eyes.
I am acid eaten by my inner sea.
There is a rumbling, there is a roar,
My silken thighs are torn by your thrusts,
A pulsing wave rises
And then, there is no more.
The darkness gushes up and hits my inner eyes,
and I drift to sleep listening to the consort queen's lies.
It will be, it must be
and forever wrapped within the inner sea.
Monday, August 6, 2007
The Inner Sea
The First Canto
Will you journey to my inner sea?
The dawn screams in the distance,
it is the utter east invading.
Before sweep the fans of clouds,
slashes of mauve and iron grey,
clawed through bluing sky from darkness.
Homer smiles as fingers reach through ocean's horizon
and fall upon our pebbled peach, carving light and shadows
upon our still exhausted faces.
You, face still damp from swimming in pleasure's inlet
skip your stones upon the crests of my waves,
for this is my sea, and they are my tides and troughs.
You turn to me and glare with your sapphire gaze,
and rasp a question that we can't deny:
"Must it be?"
For we both know, it must be.
Will you journey into my inner sea?
Must it be? It must be, for that which
we wish to become to be at all.
Your shoulder's slump and your body,
that torques sculpture carved by chance and time,
grows limpid limp.
I cannot help but to respond,
and finding soft patch of white sand,
I pose languid upon it.
Come to me, come to me,
and enter into my inner sea.
Wretched are the waves tossed by storm,
but the sea bed does not know it,
serene the kingdom of the deep remains,
holding the growiing and the still,
the living, dying and the dead.
Beneath the waves in sunken grottos is aroused
Him and Her, the majesties of this deep.
Their castle is a glitter with the sharp shards,
of jewelled sceptres and worn rosaries,
built on bones, but made of hopes,
and quiet inner dreams.
She the consort queen calls to my hidden mind,
calling me to tell those luring lies,
that have beckoned all my kind to her before.
She is the monarch of the siren calls,
the royal we of that fertile tribe.
I must go to her, though my mind sees her,
and knows it not.
She offers me the light that is in the darkness,
for the unspoken words that have dwelled within me since almost I was made.
These orbs upon which half is written, but all
all will be unspoken, without you.
For it is for you that they have waited
that I have waited,
that all has waited,
for you to heed her beckon'ed call
and enter into,
my inner sea.
Now your turbluence grows to fever frenzy,
and the tide of my desire on which
your ship will sale,
flows, floods and flourishes.
The hairs, like reeds, whip and lash my inner lips,
your hands grasp, a mariner like all men,
my rounded hips, and gripping them to tight response,
I am your vessel. Use me as you will.
As you must. For it must be.
The pressure grows upon me,
and strokes the stoking flowing of inner rivers
the blood which ripens all my body,
though I can feel it only by inflection,
and see it on your faces reflection.
The tide has come and the ship must sail,
its flag flown more proudly than any banner,
its course repeated traced.
My flesh feels the the curls upon your chest,
that grind upon my nipples and my breasts,
oh how I am smooth blank page for this,
the passion writ on waters deep.
My time and tides that come as blood were for this,
my river of passion brings me this floating bliss,
I am beyond half the words I know,
bidden by the consort queen and her undertown.
She the siren screech is in my ears,
drowning logic and drenching fears.
Of all the calculation of my life in rhymes,
the seem like delays to this rape sublime.
Not of you of me, but of the overwhelming coming
of my inner sea.
Oh how it embraces you as I spasm,
locked in eternal instant of hanging need,
to be owned by this ocean now my only creed.
I know that weeks ago I ceased to prevent,
what now I feel annealing as your passion spent.
In that moment, this burned away,
the person who awoke that other day,
we have passed away from sight of virgin lands,
and guided by your rod and hammer,
pushed and forced by hidden hands.
Oh to be, oh to be, forever voyaging,
on this inner sea.
Nothing of my soul to slave,
to be yours only, and destiny's slave.
The consort queen mocks me, as she always will
as I clench thee, hold thee,
in this warm morning still
my spirit reaches for that old fantasy,
of my cup monthly emptied, and lifetime filled.
Oh dear, come to me,
and journey upon my inner sea.
Then in your face I see Him,
the ocean's crowned king,
and all the terrors that he brings.
That to live here adrift in this awful plane
will mean muteness now, forever more.
He. Not him but Him and He,
now towers to blot the sun and bury me,
he is the god that all women fear,
the one that stalks us through bitter years,
and bend us on our dainty knees,
for him alone for our mouths to please.
He would rob us of our essence and our soul,
and reduce us only to that role,
that costume of silks and chains
which Pentuach fetish is made.
He spears me, with you merely as the trident prong,
it was his plan here, all along.
His consort queen did call me to this place,
and set me upon his ancient race.
Must it be? Must it be?
Are we forever lost, on my inner sea?
My body once etheral in your hands,
dreaming of those distant sunlit lands,
now aches to be free of this and you,
to have this voyage dissolve to dew.
The flows that fissure within me now become
like molten rock frozen by what is come.
Wretched my salt soaked hair is stung,
and clings to my forehead and sticks my eyes.
The consort queen has bought me cheaply with her lies.
She calls to you, and bids you to set the bow,
to open waters furrowed by many ship-wreaked prows.
Even as this fear intensely holds,
your body still tangled in my folds,
your face still ponding in my eyes,
our ears still echoing with my cries.
The cries that gave me body to your seed,
and filled me with sated need.
They are the screeches of the carrion birds,
that now will strip my soul from my life,
and flesh from my bones,
and sink me into the warm wet depth,
of castled consort queen,
and trident monarch's breathes.
They two laugh at it, and us, and me,
to have dared with mind this unminding sea.
Must it be? Must it be?
Am I this prisoner of my inner sea?
The dawn screams in the distance,
it is the utter east invading.
Before sweep the fans of clouds,
slashes of mauve and iron grey,
clawed through bluing sky from darkness.
Homer smiles as fingers reach through ocean's horizon
and fall upon our pebbled peach, carving light and shadows
upon our still exhausted faces.
You, face still damp from swimming in pleasure's inlet
skip your stones upon the crests of my waves,
for this is my sea, and they are my tides and troughs.
You turn to me and glare with your sapphire gaze,
and rasp a question that we can't deny:
"Must it be?"
For we both know, it must be.
Will you journey into my inner sea?
Must it be? It must be, for that which
we wish to become to be at all.
Your shoulder's slump and your body,
that torques sculpture carved by chance and time,
grows limpid limp.
I cannot help but to respond,
and finding soft patch of white sand,
I pose languid upon it.
Come to me, come to me,
and enter into my inner sea.
Wretched are the waves tossed by storm,
but the sea bed does not know it,
serene the kingdom of the deep remains,
holding the growiing and the still,
the living, dying and the dead.
Beneath the waves in sunken grottos is aroused
Him and Her, the majesties of this deep.
Their castle is a glitter with the sharp shards,
of jewelled sceptres and worn rosaries,
built on bones, but made of hopes,
and quiet inner dreams.
She the consort queen calls to my hidden mind,
calling me to tell those luring lies,
that have beckoned all my kind to her before.
She is the monarch of the siren calls,
the royal we of that fertile tribe.
I must go to her, though my mind sees her,
and knows it not.
She offers me the light that is in the darkness,
for the unspoken words that have dwelled within me since almost I was made.
These orbs upon which half is written, but all
all will be unspoken, without you.
For it is for you that they have waited
that I have waited,
that all has waited,
for you to heed her beckon'ed call
and enter into,
my inner sea.
Now your turbluence grows to fever frenzy,
and the tide of my desire on which
your ship will sale,
flows, floods and flourishes.
The hairs, like reeds, whip and lash my inner lips,
your hands grasp, a mariner like all men,
my rounded hips, and gripping them to tight response,
I am your vessel. Use me as you will.
As you must. For it must be.
The pressure grows upon me,
and strokes the stoking flowing of inner rivers
the blood which ripens all my body,
though I can feel it only by inflection,
and see it on your faces reflection.
The tide has come and the ship must sail,
its flag flown more proudly than any banner,
its course repeated traced.
My flesh feels the the curls upon your chest,
that grind upon my nipples and my breasts,
oh how I am smooth blank page for this,
the passion writ on waters deep.
My time and tides that come as blood were for this,
my river of passion brings me this floating bliss,
I am beyond half the words I know,
bidden by the consort queen and her undertown.
She the siren screech is in my ears,
drowning logic and drenching fears.
Of all the calculation of my life in rhymes,
the seem like delays to this rape sublime.
Not of you of me, but of the overwhelming coming
of my inner sea.
Oh how it embraces you as I spasm,
locked in eternal instant of hanging need,
to be owned by this ocean now my only creed.
I know that weeks ago I ceased to prevent,
what now I feel annealing as your passion spent.
In that moment, this burned away,
the person who awoke that other day,
we have passed away from sight of virgin lands,
and guided by your rod and hammer,
pushed and forced by hidden hands.
Oh to be, oh to be, forever voyaging,
on this inner sea.
Nothing of my soul to slave,
to be yours only, and destiny's slave.
The consort queen mocks me, as she always will
as I clench thee, hold thee,
in this warm morning still
my spirit reaches for that old fantasy,
of my cup monthly emptied, and lifetime filled.
Oh dear, come to me,
and journey upon my inner sea.
Then in your face I see Him,
the ocean's crowned king,
and all the terrors that he brings.
That to live here adrift in this awful plane
will mean muteness now, forever more.
He. Not him but Him and He,
now towers to blot the sun and bury me,
he is the god that all women fear,
the one that stalks us through bitter years,
and bend us on our dainty knees,
for him alone for our mouths to please.
He would rob us of our essence and our soul,
and reduce us only to that role,
that costume of silks and chains
which Pentuach fetish is made.
He spears me, with you merely as the trident prong,
it was his plan here, all along.
His consort queen did call me to this place,
and set me upon his ancient race.
Must it be? Must it be?
Are we forever lost, on my inner sea?
My body once etheral in your hands,
dreaming of those distant sunlit lands,
now aches to be free of this and you,
to have this voyage dissolve to dew.
The flows that fissure within me now become
like molten rock frozen by what is come.
Wretched my salt soaked hair is stung,
and clings to my forehead and sticks my eyes.
The consort queen has bought me cheaply with her lies.
She calls to you, and bids you to set the bow,
to open waters furrowed by many ship-wreaked prows.
Even as this fear intensely holds,
your body still tangled in my folds,
your face still ponding in my eyes,
our ears still echoing with my cries.
The cries that gave me body to your seed,
and filled me with sated need.
They are the screeches of the carrion birds,
that now will strip my soul from my life,
and flesh from my bones,
and sink me into the warm wet depth,
of castled consort queen,
and trident monarch's breathes.
They two laugh at it, and us, and me,
to have dared with mind this unminding sea.
Must it be? Must it be?
Am I this prisoner of my inner sea?
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Thorns and the Thistle
You plucked me from the thorns,
my name was anything but a rose,
and I was nothing like the sun.
I found you wandering, lost,
among the thistle and the lavender,
the burs atangled through your flaxen hair.
I combed it, like the tide,
finding what was awashed upon my farther shores.
Your cheek was soft and your eyes pale fire,
though their color was molten dark.
They met my gaze, which was still as limpid pools,
that are the glacial waters from moutains' depths.
Offered up this, spring eternal, slaked your thirst
as you drank drank drank deep from me, and all that I am.
Or all that will become.
And it gave you life,
and it gave me life to give it.
And you raised your face to match mine,
and you were my far horizon,
and I your coming east.
And all the other ands that might join one to two,
and yet become one again.
It was this light that flooded into me,
and illuminated all the flowers, and seeds forlorn.
Every little thing comes calling,
of that one momment,
when burning darkness fell upon an age,
when we alone in shuttered room,
when were still yet free from connection's glare,
when there was still here, and there to have.
To have and to hold, until death will us part.
So will our children will go ariding,
through the thistles and the thorns,
across the broad plains uncarved by water's touch,
towards that heavenly splendor we yearn for so much,
versed in meta we as yet do not understand,
will we yet rest in an unpromised land.
Our ghosts will wander with that calendar,
whose divisions have not yet to expression come,
when lordly sun, and mistress moon, can and will and might and are,
as once before the world was fair begun,
no longer twain to two, but become one.
So, my dear, now you must of body sleep:
the morrow's promise I've yet to keep,
that when the shadows of this night are gone
you will waken into, a brighter dawn.
my name was anything but a rose,
and I was nothing like the sun.
I found you wandering, lost,
among the thistle and the lavender,
the burs atangled through your flaxen hair.
I combed it, like the tide,
finding what was awashed upon my farther shores.
Your cheek was soft and your eyes pale fire,
though their color was molten dark.
They met my gaze, which was still as limpid pools,
that are the glacial waters from moutains' depths.
Offered up this, spring eternal, slaked your thirst
as you drank drank drank deep from me, and all that I am.
Or all that will become.
And it gave you life,
and it gave me life to give it.
And you raised your face to match mine,
and you were my far horizon,
and I your coming east.
And all the other ands that might join one to two,
and yet become one again.
It was this light that flooded into me,
and illuminated all the flowers, and seeds forlorn.
Every little thing comes calling,
of that one momment,
when burning darkness fell upon an age,
when we alone in shuttered room,
when were still yet free from connection's glare,
when there was still here, and there to have.
To have and to hold, until death will us part.
So will our children will go ariding,
through the thistles and the thorns,
across the broad plains uncarved by water's touch,
towards that heavenly splendor we yearn for so much,
versed in meta we as yet do not understand,
will we yet rest in an unpromised land.
Our ghosts will wander with that calendar,
whose divisions have not yet to expression come,
when lordly sun, and mistress moon, can and will and might and are,
as once before the world was fair begun,
no longer twain to two, but become one.
So, my dear, now you must of body sleep:
the morrow's promise I've yet to keep,
that when the shadows of this night are gone
you will waken into, a brighter dawn.
Friday, July 6, 2007
I sing for you
Let me tap my feet in syncopated rhythm,
the sounds are not sounds, but only in our minds.
Let me undulate my form for you,
the flesh is not flesh, but in our senses.
Let me soak you in my perfume,
the scent is not scent, but in your memory.
Let me open all I am to you,
the moisture that you feel is mirage in a wasteland.
Is this some other world, some other place?
No, never, nonce, and not.
It is the real world that we all know.
Because each, and everything, we feel and hear and see and smell,
we know them not, except as we sense them,
and then in conjuration later do remember them.
And these veiled reveries, that skip and dance for us before the mind's eyes.
These, and these alone, are all we have.
For when I leave you to sleep upon your bed,
and slide soft silk upon my hips,
and smooth sateen cotton kissed by your lips,
and clip my rich firmament of hair up from soft shoulders,
and turn to walk to that half opened darkened doors.
It is memories, only memories, that you will have of me
of all that is mine, that you took from me
of all that was ours, that we had in this place.
And once remembered, they are no more, nor less, real
than any other time and or imagined face.
And when you are disheartened and alone,
when you are reaching for that other home,
you will command "Speak memory,"
and calling forth spirits, with that magic,
that all humans learn, and animals learn to fear,
from out of distant past of never more,
the words, those old and awful words, come forth
"Sing, Goddess."
Then, in that silent still caress of reminiscence,
my face and form and voice will come to you,
where by you will enter back into to this and other heres.
I am your Circe, and by this sorcercy will you disclose,
that magic circle woven out of poetry, memory, music,
and transfigured prose.
the sounds are not sounds, but only in our minds.
Let me undulate my form for you,
the flesh is not flesh, but in our senses.
Let me soak you in my perfume,
the scent is not scent, but in your memory.
Let me open all I am to you,
the moisture that you feel is mirage in a wasteland.
Is this some other world, some other place?
No, never, nonce, and not.
It is the real world that we all know.
Because each, and everything, we feel and hear and see and smell,
we know them not, except as we sense them,
and then in conjuration later do remember them.
And these veiled reveries, that skip and dance for us before the mind's eyes.
These, and these alone, are all we have.
For when I leave you to sleep upon your bed,
and slide soft silk upon my hips,
and smooth sateen cotton kissed by your lips,
and clip my rich firmament of hair up from soft shoulders,
and turn to walk to that half opened darkened doors.
It is memories, only memories, that you will have of me
of all that is mine, that you took from me
of all that was ours, that we had in this place.
And once remembered, they are no more, nor less, real
than any other time and or imagined face.
And when you are disheartened and alone,
when you are reaching for that other home,
you will command "Speak memory,"
and calling forth spirits, with that magic,
that all humans learn, and animals learn to fear,
from out of distant past of never more,
the words, those old and awful words, come forth
"Sing, Goddess."
Then, in that silent still caress of reminiscence,
my face and form and voice will come to you,
where by you will enter back into to this and other heres.
I am your Circe, and by this sorcercy will you disclose,
that magic circle woven out of poetry, memory, music,
and transfigured prose.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Delta of Venus:
A Lady of Peace Writes on the War.
A tribute.
Look down upon my contours, stand on my paired pinnacles, a circle of roses,
upon which many would be conquers have stood,
and from which flow
the rivers of life that have swaddled uncounted armies.
The Greeks knew that it was the spray of milk
from my breasts,
that spattered across the heavens to create the galaxy.
Gaze upon my smooth ripe slopes,
their subtle curves that rise up from the bones of the world.
In one direction are the glistening blue seas of deep,.
Kingdoms not of this world have made it's rills to a capital of the soul and spirit.
In the other lies the sandy coloured plains,
down to the great delta,
that place of succor which men struggle to control.
Behold a gem, set in the navel of my belly,
which rests over the deep powerful of my fertility.
Within it, within me, all that is was born.
The first words, and first cities, the first gods, and the first monsters.
From this, from there deep within my underworld is the origin of the cosmos.
And then journey down through my thicket of reeds,
closer and closer to the mouth of my river, whose wetness exudes a hot scent.
Here feast all who would call themselves kings.
It is here that heroes first choked dragons on mortal combat.
It is here that the they are enveloped in paradise and pleasure.
It is here that is the utter east, that eden,
where man and woman were made in the image of many gods.
On my soft skin are etched the cuniform,
the cunt writing of the ancient ages,
worshipping the givers of rain,
the bringers of fertility and life,
spawned by union of hot desires and cold calculation.
Unto this land you new, bright, Siegfried have come,
free of the bonds of an old world,
and not knowing fear.
You think you have come to slay a beast, without becoming one in return.
Unto this land you came to set your seal on my flesh,
hoping to brand my waters, white and black,
with your starry banner, striped with bone and blood.
On these hallowed grounds you have come,
to topple down images of my breasts
that are built buy the last sun god to seek to subjugate the mistress moon.
He put her symbol on his flags,
he gave them over to her green fertility,
he set his calendar by her,
hoping that these concessions would bind her daughters over to him,
binding them in marriage servility.
His temples are spires that are thin,
with globes which are round and large.
Tell me, as you gaze upon them,
is it yin or yang which is more powerfully expressed?
Here you have built your temple to fertility, and called it "a green zone,"
though it be spattered in blood.
Here you have had your "surge" of unnatural male enhancement,
to subjugate the city which is the jewel of my navel,
hoping that by spilling blood, and slaughtering innocent and guility alike,
that your sky god, with his image of the raptor eagle will be larger than any other god.
Is that not what you said: "my god is bigger than his god?"
But little men contend, it is the goddess that rules the ends.
And what is it that you seek?
Why of course, the rivers of my moisture,
that mud that you feed your peoples and their many multitudes,
that ancient life compressed until it has fermented into a black liquid gold,
for, over, and with which, so many millions have died.
Your leaders cower before this awful nightmare,
and consign your sons to flames of woe.
You strut and stride your perversions in your prisons,
as you humiliate the sons of other mothers.
You shatter your own tablets of law so eager for my delta are you.
You lap your tongue in me, the land the Greeks once called "Euphrates."
But I tell you that there are ancient laws from first the goddess set her seal,
on this, the oldest profession.
These rules bind me and thee in an eternal embrace,
for your sons shall not be coming home their mothers,
but shall be absorbed in me.
Their life to feed my life, their sinews to become my soil.
I hold between my thighs, to each side of that narrow gulf,
the delta of venus, into which you clumsily seek to jam your omega of Mars.
For I am the whore of babylon, and you shall not come to rape me and leave.
No matter how passionately you delve my depths seeking moisture,
intoxicated by my musk, I shall consume you in my tunnel,
never to see light again.
Those who come to seek the blackness shall find the darkness.
Did you not know the ancient myth,
that even heroes who die
fall into the abyss,
and there to feed on mud for all eternity?
(Sleep the long sleep Mr. Gilliard. I play Egmont for you, and remember the hours spent reading your fluent anger at the rot of this age.)
steve gilliard
Look down upon my contours, stand on my paired pinnacles, a circle of roses,
upon which many would be conquers have stood,
and from which flow
the rivers of life that have swaddled uncounted armies.
The Greeks knew that it was the spray of milk
from my breasts,
that spattered across the heavens to create the galaxy.
Gaze upon my smooth ripe slopes,
their subtle curves that rise up from the bones of the world.
In one direction are the glistening blue seas of deep,.
Kingdoms not of this world have made it's rills to a capital of the soul and spirit.
In the other lies the sandy coloured plains,
down to the great delta,
that place of succor which men struggle to control.
Behold a gem, set in the navel of my belly,
which rests over the deep powerful of my fertility.
Within it, within me, all that is was born.
The first words, and first cities, the first gods, and the first monsters.
From this, from there deep within my underworld is the origin of the cosmos.
And then journey down through my thicket of reeds,
closer and closer to the mouth of my river, whose wetness exudes a hot scent.
Here feast all who would call themselves kings.
It is here that heroes first choked dragons on mortal combat.
It is here that the they are enveloped in paradise and pleasure.
It is here that is the utter east, that eden,
where man and woman were made in the image of many gods.
On my soft skin are etched the cuniform,
the cunt writing of the ancient ages,
worshipping the givers of rain,
the bringers of fertility and life,
spawned by union of hot desires and cold calculation.
Unto this land you new, bright, Siegfried have come,
free of the bonds of an old world,
and not knowing fear.
You think you have come to slay a beast, without becoming one in return.
Unto this land you came to set your seal on my flesh,
hoping to brand my waters, white and black,
with your starry banner, striped with bone and blood.
On these hallowed grounds you have come,
to topple down images of my breasts
that are built buy the last sun god to seek to subjugate the mistress moon.
He put her symbol on his flags,
he gave them over to her green fertility,
he set his calendar by her,
hoping that these concessions would bind her daughters over to him,
binding them in marriage servility.
His temples are spires that are thin,
with globes which are round and large.
Tell me, as you gaze upon them,
is it yin or yang which is more powerfully expressed?
Here you have built your temple to fertility, and called it "a green zone,"
though it be spattered in blood.
Here you have had your "surge" of unnatural male enhancement,
to subjugate the city which is the jewel of my navel,
hoping that by spilling blood, and slaughtering innocent and guility alike,
that your sky god, with his image of the raptor eagle will be larger than any other god.
Is that not what you said: "my god is bigger than his god?"
But little men contend, it is the goddess that rules the ends.
And what is it that you seek?
Why of course, the rivers of my moisture,
that mud that you feed your peoples and their many multitudes,
that ancient life compressed until it has fermented into a black liquid gold,
for, over, and with which, so many millions have died.
Your leaders cower before this awful nightmare,
and consign your sons to flames of woe.
You strut and stride your perversions in your prisons,
as you humiliate the sons of other mothers.
You shatter your own tablets of law so eager for my delta are you.
You lap your tongue in me, the land the Greeks once called "Euphrates."
But I tell you that there are ancient laws from first the goddess set her seal,
on this, the oldest profession.
These rules bind me and thee in an eternal embrace,
for your sons shall not be coming home their mothers,
but shall be absorbed in me.
Their life to feed my life, their sinews to become my soil.
I hold between my thighs, to each side of that narrow gulf,
the delta of venus, into which you clumsily seek to jam your omega of Mars.
For I am the whore of babylon, and you shall not come to rape me and leave.
No matter how passionately you delve my depths seeking moisture,
intoxicated by my musk, I shall consume you in my tunnel,
never to see light again.
Those who come to seek the blackness shall find the darkness.
Did you not know the ancient myth,
that even heroes who die
fall into the abyss,
and there to feed on mud for all eternity?
(Sleep the long sleep Mr. Gilliard. I play Egmont for you, and remember the hours spent reading your fluent anger at the rot of this age.)
steve gilliard
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