Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He “believed in six impossible things just before breakfast”
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
“The beautiful illusion”
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet’s world,
was shattered,
Not by “a sea of trouble”
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
“The Horror, the Horror”
And then
Nothing more.

These kids been out on battlefronts
Holding pistols like prayers
Seeing yearbooks on the news
Mothers folding into themselves,
Masses march streets for solace,
Searching for an end to all of this,
But when firearms fight the fears,
It's hard to dream without one

The Death of the Poet
By: Yue Xing Yitkbel ****
9:38PM
10/21/2013 TO, ON

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He "believed in six impossible things just before breakfast"
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
"The beautiful illusion"
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet's world,
was shattered,
Not by "a sea of trouble"
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
"The Horror, the Horror"
And then
Nothing more.

Hello, Mister. God, or is it Miss, or Missus,
Don’t rush down to smother me with kisses.
Why listen to pleas and heartfelt prayers?
There must be something better elsewhere.
Somebody you can help that has better words.
The kind of holy roller crap we have always heard.

Maybe I can take a class and learn to speak
In Latin or Farsi or go get dunked in a creek.
Maybe I can buy black clothes and a collar
Or stand on a busy corner downtown and holler.
I’d even be willing to suffer in a golden palace
And only drink blessed wine from a silver chalice.
I’d gladly have a television show and do healing.
I’ll gladly lift my arms, overact looking at the ceiling.

I can practice celibacy and ignore my own crotch
I am sure I can. You just sit on a a cloud and watch.
I’m sure I can do laying on of hands quite well.
I can chant and sing and save people from hell.
I’m not too bad to look at and clean up good.
I’m perfectly ready to be a holy person if you would
Just cast your divine magic glance in my direction
And notice the piety and depth of my genuflection.

I have been told of the sparrow’s fall you see
That you’re to be revered on holidays regularly.
When babies die, and any pitiful sinless soul
We are told we are to accept it is part of your role
To take a life, or give disease as it’s all your plan.
That your love and your grace is greater than man
And therefore we must must not question you
And just accept all of the miracles that you do.

My hope is that, if I do it all perfectly some day
You’ll take our earthly pain and suffering away.
No, not mine. I’m being fairly lucky in my life.
I mean the pain of every husband and every wife
And every single person, of any age and station
And choice of worship, in every town and nation.
People at games and parties and battlefronts all
Keep praying for your help. Mr. God, get on the ball!

There are only so many battles
one can fight at any point in time.
to be struggling on so many battlefronts
can leave you weary and even broken
whether they are mental
or physical.
For a mere human mind or body
to be occupied on so many fronts-
well, they were never designed
for that sort of pain.

As there is ebb and flow
In crystal caves
We're dancing in the unknown multiverse

Catharsis and effigy, 'tings
Yet together of flowers in petals the lights glows

Ankhs stipulated by silver countenance
Mere desires, fame, destiny, brilliance
Build thyne's cities, steps and fear of
Mother's indentured absconded
Blades that be-still the feral warriors
In our strength and platonic ambiguity, there's tears

Indulge in premises made from proclamation
Surely a deity deigns servile flattery
of dinning and shamed into fighting
Everyone touches the stratospheric, the industrializations

Hunt for an apostle
The believer's maze bible ripples voices insane
The treacherous apple sits upon us
Our bitter oaken stockade
A mirror as an image makes spoken reflections
Across rivers battlefronts war stories catching the rains

Throughout all impressions
And our summer spices set
Fluently innocent one may find their lost

Heaven's Brimstone and Fire
Shoved into investigations
Of all facets of Abbadon
Drifts through central city then to the south funeral pyres

And now frail though brutal
There are assumptions and we choose to begin

Showering if not as placid rainbows
off the water at Heavens end...
As scouring proletariat hands worried port of call
trapped washing all made simple by the devil's sham

Deviously you contemplate you may
Be found fickly running to the underground

Whence out falls Edens and...
In calls the pleadings of the wicked and old