" Thinking of the end, getting hard to smile,"
But then again, they thought Paul was dead,
After they stoned him and dragged him a mile,
Once again, to their surprise,
outside the city gate he opened his eyes,
and walked 'till sunrise.
"I have my doubts, and I had my chance,"
In the land of Buddha,
malaria and venom tips the lance,
Thomas built a temple,
where even the British Empire can't.
And once again,
Such a builder, and such a builder of men,
Surviving quake and flood,
By using coils for foundation from a cobra's den.
"I am going to hell for all the women I had,"
and then again,
Saint Peter was really good at being bad,
working at the docks,
then he was really bad at being good,
then Born again, then he awesomely understood,
and then he was really bad at being bad,
he cleaned up quite nice,
and now works the Gates for his dad.
and a sneaking suspicion I always had,
It can only be from Peter,
To give the Lord rest with a laugh.
" I hate myself, and want to die."
But once again, if I had Andrew's eyes,
I would hold to the bloody end,
Spying the Lord walking down the beach,
" Hot dam, that's the Lord!"
like icy ocean touching Paul's battered feet,
Born again is when Andrew was first to see.
If there is hope for him, there is hope for me.
With Paul's feet and Peter's fists,
Born again, with Andrew's eyes, and Thomas's wits,
and born again I pity Judas for that kiss.
"Im not a Jew," but neither was Luke,
The Good Doctor, the poet and Greek,
That penned the beautiful birth we seek,
" I am giving up, this is the end!"
And once again, the Good Doctor agrees.
"Man not the less, but nature more,"
saith not the lowly, but the Lord°,
and I, not at all, my nature only,
rather shake with thorn of poison forb,
then remain on path, remain lonely,
prefer their canine tooth to absorb,
Than the leash that walketh,
Rather receive Belladonna's nightshade kiss,
Than receive gifts from their poisoned pocket.
Rather stroll by ticks and toxin in hemlock forest,
Where venomous diamonds molt to keep them flawless,
And only those diamonds will command my silence,
Only from those blue bloods will I be dying.
Even if my defiance wears me thin,
Climbing away from man-made pathogen,
Last breath atop glaical till--
will inbreath nature--exhale ill.
I'm almost one with darkness,
So close this shadow thug,
I await the jerking tug,
Into its onyx sharpness,
And such a nightshade blade,
When returns the moon in wane,
The grabber and the stabber,
Are not one of the same.
And I skirt this darkness madly,
Because I am already bleeding badly,
Like the torment of a dream,
For a kiss you go to lean,
And you are lip locked with a scream,
The only way to end,
Is to rip yourself to shreds,
Then the only way to go,
Is hold your head so low,
So your love is never seen,
But you see you made a fist,
By trying not to exist,
Skirting nearer to darkness,
Your only parental kiss.
And it is when darkness is not doom,
Like the bright bullies of high noon,
You have hope in hooded darkness,
To stab yourself,
With the crescent dagger of the moon.
There is something about the cute brunette,
With long lustrous brown hair over one shoulder,
It is like the common brown sparrow that winters over,
So rare and so mundane,
Like the surviving American chestnut tree Dutch disease has not slain.
And in the branches I look closer, in weather that numbs me,
The sparrow, Fine face, elegant and comely,
The hawks would not feud with her
Lips, glossed with deadly berry of winter-juniper.
I want to kiss her ,as if a hungry chick in winter,
And such bliss, watching talons miss,
Brown hair parted mid air chasing off hawk as she babysits.
With long boots, and chestnut hair over the shoulder,
Such a vixen, a rarity--as I look closer,
this brunette beauty that winters over.
From top bunk,
"Why does he do that?"
" killed wife and kids
" Driving drunk."
The inside alarm,
A Taunting dawn,
" it is getting cold."
In dreams of long ago--
Hunted and destroyed
By flashlight on night patrol,
And self pity,
Is the only talk,
Of a horrid cough,
And only exhaustion
Turns it off.
And when my eyes
For the ceo,
Scrubbing hi and low,
Those tall white men,
Where does the money go?
it's cold outside"
Reaching for the light,
How a man,
Died last night,
"The pic of death"
common dying sight,
Finger to finger as
in Vatican height*
I will not go,
I will reach for
true dawn I know,
I'll awake to caws
Of crow I sleep below,
I'll awake by recluse,
With venom truth,
Tickling across my face,
To close for view,
I'll awake to frost,
In the Forrest dark,
As it swallows up,
My heated evil cough,
Finger to gloom
As I am consumed.
How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover or the philosopher's stone.
How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose, I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling truimph of my surface's relief, is from breathless standing ovation beneath. And they applaud in precious sand, a solar gift robbed in my barren lands.
Now is my region of my silver repose, no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power, the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood, and on my stare, intense solar flare, watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,
I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause can't bear to sit, , to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit, that you can only read in with my message of eclipse, my message is mercurial, it is theater caused by applause, the temple's pale light of long dead stars, in my eclipse, see what's hidden in movement, when my cold dark temple blinds from its entombment, learn the inner ways of my temples outer gaze, and you will be few like me--the mystical Gnostic--
that can marvel at oncoming inferno that is soul painfully caustic.