Theological Roots.

I will measure time in tiny blocks
I have seen the fall
Of the elders and the temple
I have seen it all collapse into pages
Made of faith
And a mistaken twice-born wraith
Nestled in between the ages that fly through me
In tiny blocks enough for
The porous glaze of a church window
And the faux smile of the patriarch

Long live the withered
Long live the dead
Long live the man with thorns on his head

Dirt is not forgotten
And the market demands a little more
The price for faith is mutilation
The price for faith is
A quick blow to the ego
But the market demands something more
The Gentile smile and pray
With closed palms
And the entropy-boys shout vitriol
And stockpile needless arms
One day they will all come back and the capital
Will wither

Long live the beaten
Long may he sing
Long live he who heaven-on-high proclaimed king

The trigger finger itches
With sand in ever crevice in between
And in the eyes of the blind
And the visionary children
Who poke out the eyes of their parents
Especially the eyes in their mind
That burn with the image
Perpendicular lines
Bearing the meek
For a long and harsh
And bruising week
That burns in the brains of
The faithful
And all
That burns in the brains of
The faithful

Long live the martyr
Long live the son
One day in God's eyes we will all be one

Golden Pinpoint.

And at the end of this
Blasted tunnel
I don't see light
I see honey
(Whiskey?)
A bit of red

Sellout

Sat and stood
     Like a sack of stones, lime
Just a drop
     Down like rain
     Down, amazingly fine
A warren
     Of the possessed
Dimly aware of
Faintly reminiscent of
In want of
     So very many things
          Thoughts of home
          Whole-made thrones
Running out of time

Synaesthesia? Maybe.

I wish I could describe the dimensions
I can see in this music

It spikes through around the corner
And sidesteps into my cortex
Angled in space
An interval is like a peak or punch
Keys are colours
And notes exist in many ways
More than sound
It's like a chord
Describes a polygon
And the corners
Manifest themselves in my neurons
And spatial perception invades my ears
Somehow

Stepping through dimensions
And directions
I didn't know existed

A Sestina.

Hell yeah, motherfuckers.

Down by the banks and reddish reed I lie
In stupor in the mud I make my bed
An instant in the river's swell received
And yet it feels as though I have come home
To water's edge the soothing stream has come
To wear away the harsh and crumpled slate

What madness comes now, here, the hour is late!
The stillness of the mirror pool belies
Up and down the muddy stretch, he comes
Arousing me, untimely, still abed
And it would dare invade this sacred home?
A beast that evil nature has conceived

If you'd not seen it there, you'd not believe
Inhaling wretched air the chest inflates
A monster that the bugs and filth call home
Spewing pus to where I had once lied
No longer would I make the bank my bed
The vodyanoi, the water beast is come

My pupils bulge as I watch it become
The most horrid thing I ever had perceived
(Roused as I was from my now soiled daybed)
The mud and scum seemed to accumulate
Some aqua golem, sooth, I do not lie
That comes here to invade my current home

I piped up to shoo it back to its own home
That it might squelch right back whence it had come
But having no defense and no allies
A sharp whack to the skull did I receive
And then I crumpled broken on the slate
Defiled now, my once inviting bed

Now damaged as I lay there and I bled
I wondered what would become of my home
To see my home untarnished would elate
But now I feared a much harsher outcome
The beast turned from me, hoping to deceive
And turned back and struck; a rather poignant lie

To my bed the vodyanoi has come
At home, the water beast received
Upon the slate I, dead, must lie

No More.

I will sing a song 
So blue
I will sing a song for you
I will sing a song or two
And one day the songs will
All be through

One day
My throat will cauterize
Itself
And collapse from all the cautious lies
Caution is the watchword
Except for when we sing
Do we cling
To caution
Until the end
Or should we scream into the night
To the end of light
When the god-sun yawns itself to death
Smiles itself into the grave
Will we sing for the old dead sun?

That depends
Will the sun sing a tune or two
A rondo bursting at the seams
A song detailing all our dreams?
The sun does not grant wishes
We will not sing for it

No
The last song of all
Will not be the sun's
It will burn itself away long before the final note
The cadence we see in our dreams
You know
The one we wrote
Escapes the cage of hope
Of potentiality
And heralds like the trumpet
The end of all that we can see

We foresaw this final song
We even wrote it
And the sun blinks for one last time
And the songs end
And the songs end

We did this
All ourselves

Collecting Dust.

A brief reprise.


The dead men sing women you mean the dead men never were quite dead dead red bled from the eyes and inside out the dead men sing for me like birds a-flying but you never really were dead were you my hybrid my father my herr doctor in the theatre in the tunnels in the bomb shelter hers and his and shouting like a joyous song like birds pierces a ribbon of red red red and maybe you're in here and maybe I ate you maybe I'm you am I you I am quite dead I believe splits in two one red one blue ich bin ein what in two and dead men bred for bright red heads me the bengel das childe no longer homme garcon mais the cliff is falling falling down down a pit of claws are they needles and mistaken monster men but my bird you sing like half of death and I crack the tablet on which I lay and you are one half of the dead men man I think man but was he real.

Superman.

Taps to a beat
That was can't hear
No more fear
Let's it all go to Hell
Taps louder and
Louder (again and again)
Fouler and fouler
(Down with the rain)

Beats on a drum
that we can't see
Says 'I'm free'
Let's it all go to Hell

Guten Morgan.

I'll finish my coffee first
(distractions)
People moving in stop motion
And beating at the sky
I'll finish this mug
(another)
And read a chapter or two
Bliss

Colourful Death.

Death comes in colors

Death comes

In a kaleidoscope coat

He comes in red and mops

The blood

From your punctured gut

He comes in white and gives

You one final breath of life

Before the tumour takes control

He comes in grey and puffs

A cigarillo

In the corner

He comes in green

To watch you

Eaten, by God knows what

He comes in blue

And pumps your lungs

Of ocean spray

He comes in pink

For the newborn

Purple for the bourgeoisie

He comes in yellow, prods

A finger at your bloated belly

Starved

And at the end

He'll come in black

He'll come in black

He comes in black

Quitter.

I cut off all my fingers
Hoping I might will them on
To grow back at least as strong
(My bony digits, long
And artless now)
In therapy I flex my lexicon
But the words vanish
A clumsy tongue
Dry air from my bruised lungs
Watered down by the rain
I used to bring down in sheets
With my bony digits, long

MachV

And with a gentle prod, a puncture in the bright veneer, something has escaped.

I can watch the tide
Beat bloody the bare brick face of the world
And I can watch the world
Smile in return

I have watched the boughs
Bend to bear the blank-brained kings
And I can watch the king
Be beaten by the boughs in turn
Be beaten and be forced to sing
Be beaten and obliged to ring
Clear across the field and mountain
Pit and rivers black

I will watch the trees
Of another country's wood
Yield death drink
From its belly
From a giant spider's mouth
The boughs bend down to be broken
I can watch the trees

We're all mad, dear.

The last three posts herein have been about Malkavians.

Just so we're all aware.

Mein Gott.

My father was a monster
But our father was a God

My mother sometimes speaks to me
And our mother roams in Nod

My kin are mad and all deformed
Our friends shine like the sun

My people curse me through my skin
But our people all are one

Our father was a blasphemy
And we are a tragedy
And we have but to emulate

My father lives on blasphemy
I see beyond the tragedy
And I have but to emulate

Mein Gott
I can see everything

Cobwebs.

One thousand tiny tiny points shine the opposite pole so loud inside but fresh air might shut them up good Gott do I want them to shut up and not one of them speaks German how is that even possible it's not difficult after all it was the language of Gott apparently NO let's not get there the yelling oh Gott the yelling Jesus asked me my name I think and I told him and he turned to stone and melted in a shower of shrapnel everything disappears in shrapnel and I ich bin I'm still floating down the Rhine on a wayward scrap of a bombshell or a bullet hole we're full of bullet holes the shape and size and irregular bent of the father's eye they say only one had three but two can have three our father had three I refuse to believe it not that I believe  much of it anyway I don't know do you hear that you bastard maybe one day you'll return and I hope by then you've learned that faces are for more than yelling but you don't have a mouth anymore YOU DON'T HAVE A MOUTH ANYMORE she was always telling you how pretty you were like stars inside a flower made of blood gouged by a metal and lace contraption that hides underneath a pool of honey and milk all dressed in black but Gott and children are eclipsed by du ich bin stop that you left your mother strapped to the operating table and one day he'll return and all your fathers with it because syringes aren't medical they're a little more subtle than that for Gott's sake can't you all just be subtle please the syringes go in the eyes the syringes go in the eyes the syringes go the eyes eyes the eyes like a hole in the world staring into the pit and the pit stares into me because I am the pit runs away one day into the big city sleeping like neubauten and I can never go to the doctor because she told me it has three eyes and the devil has three eyes and he joined the chorus little by little adversaries little liars smell like the warmth of life who doesn't enjoy a bit of luxury and it comes so shiny like you made it stupid boy do it again in the city where monsters are friends instead of being made of bombs and blonde hair how did you not explode you tried so hard and ran away and now monsters are my friends hidden from my mind's eye Malkav's eye the eyes go in the syringe mein Herr poison poison poison poison poison poison oil BANG oil gas-jets clawing his way out of my mind like into black's in life a pillar can be nice when made of BANG and claws made of salt daughters of FILTH SCUM GET OUT OF MY CITY we thought you must be dead but she's screaming so it must be lies like the future dressed in black and all the children sing like men sing like men kommt ein Vogel geflogen setzt si nieder auf mein Fuß a good boy doesn't eat his friends nor shun his the monsters under his feet you always were a good boy oi lads better not get too excited I wonder when you'll speak mein Herr good Gott it smells down here.

Albert.

I watched you die
Twice
In my mind's eye
Thrice you've mocked me for leaning on you
And four times you've disappeared

And every time you returned
Albert
Like a gunshot in my ear
Like a bomb underneath my feet
In those tunnels that run beneath the street

You taught me to trust
And I mistrusted you in haste
Oh, Gott
(It appears that Traugott now is me)
You were so grateful that I couldn't see
But I see you shining there
Albert

Weavers.

My friends
My lovers
We are spiders
We take in the world
And let our emotions become caustic
And poison
In our guts
Our bellies
And we lay them out on the world-web
And let each other sting
And be stung
Bite
And be bitten
By our emotional poison
Made of love
And truth

We trace light patterns
Between cups of coffee
We make a web of mind
And soul
We trace dark patterns
Between glasses of wine
We make a web of us
That's whole

My lovers
My friends
We are spiders
Bugs of prey
And all the world is prey
You know
For our musings light as aether's glow

I poison myself for you
I poison myself for all of you

We reshape the world

To The Forest.

To You who reside in the forest,

Don't assume anything.

A lot of the things you deduced and reasoned out for yourself were right. And you'll continue to alarm yourself with your own insight and perception. You'll begin to curse your ability to guess horrible things correctly. They will weigh on your mind.

But, please, don't assume anything about anyone.

Sincerely,
The Woodsman.

O, Janus.

I douse myself
And let myself be plucked
Like dulcet strings
And as smoke drifts into my drawn out face
It is the updraft in my flightless wings

They are broken children's things
I am a broken child's thing

I am blind
And search the depths
And the heights of the tallest trees
Contentment swells within my breast
A great many things can my eyes see

Extinguished.

Nothing is ever extinguished

Come in out of the
Rain
Makes a heavy noise
The stench of wine
And sweat
And boys

A tempest of pride and sin
Begets this
But nothing is begat by this

But none of it is ever extinguished
Like light is never extinguished
It refracts into a haze of mild warmth
And volume
If we concentrate we can bring it into fruitful being
Once again

I hear them argue of duality
And the philosophy of
God
Walks into the room
No, God is not extinguished
Nor extinguisher

Stare straight into the
Sun
Day brings another spark
Aroused of ashes and attrition
It was never extinguished

Nothing is ever extinguished
Least of all
In any form
Love

Neglect.

We live among the giants
We walk among the Gods
And we tremble as they set foot outside our tiny kitchen window
We offer up our prayers and sacrifice
And they give us their advice
And sometimes, God help us
We listen

The Lark Ascending.

The lark ascending on petticoat wings
In sun-soaked silence of the morn
To join the dawn chorus, to sing

From banished cold and nightly sting
The finch and sparrow, all manner adorned
The lark ascending on petticoat wings

Lifting up with the dew, in joyous swing
The hearts of the forest, the rabbit and faun
To join the dawn chorus, to sing

The russet quilt of the great sun king
And his subjects to the waking horn
The lark ascending on petticoat wings

Replete of joy that morning brings
Bereft of moonlight, cold, forlorn
To join the dawn chorus, to sing

Gathered here the splendorous spring
In dewy wonder of the morn
The lark ascending on petticoat wings
To join the dawn chorus, to sing.

The Rider.

Pre-ambling out of a rich red haze
Stony-throat silence abounds in the air.
Paler than the deadest and redder than the East.

Corpse-white? Why?

With all the resonant timbre of a pit.

Sunset damages fade and falter under moon;

Merciful moon, mother moon.

His whispers fade away in soot and smoke.

Does it hurt him?

But the sun can only scream.

A recluse that impresses upon

the twisted-up alleys of refuse and scorn.

The able stance of the recanted morn

How does he bear it?

Resets in regal manse, white corpse adorned.

Treble curs't, and treble bound in woe.

Covered in earth and violet spring.

Zie sleeps in frigid earth and under stone.

Ach, ich... du... but who?

He treads lightly, but attends.

Aroused of the singular sun, he attends.

Stick in the mud.

Stop it Stephen Fry, you know very well that any time you write something clever in a traditional form I'm going to give that form a go.


Whaddya mean I can just stop reading the Goddamn book?


I balance on the quivering edge
Of a violin's taught string
Solemn, I peer over the ledge
                         A curious thing


I have a finger in every basket
But few eggs to give
Come with me to the casket
                         But I yet live


You sound just like that other one
Frustrating, talking, complaining
Oh, but they're all so fun
                         It starts raining


I fear I've forced this whole collection
The words herein are worthless, less
'Twas worth the dissection?
                         I suppose, God bless

Terza Rima.

Like sullen tide we march on break of day
With lungs of black blood stone and ice on wind
Forget the half-shamed words of those who stay

A vapor, steam, that rises from the skinned
And tortured through a night of red hot steel
A vapor, steam, that lifts us up, the sinned

Or sinner from another day, we reel
To hear our names come chanting down the hill
Their weight and shame and hatred that we feel

But risen by what might, what strength of will?
What pride do we have left in bitter nights?
When time and tide have halted and are still?

In bitter cold and darkness we have light
That burns for us, in darkness we have light