Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood (unleashing lashing waves
that wash the stony structures clean with radiance that laves).
Deserted streets, once draped retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with sounds of words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life ( at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls, whist buildings, tall... outside the City, dunes...
they frame a frail forgotten tale, once written carved in runes,
with symbols strung like halos hung, reflections of the moon’s.
Though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise
the City’s now a sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos still aglow.
Steel chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
The footsteps swarm the church no more (apostates that profane),
and echoes in the nave ring thin, though chalice cups retain
a taste of brine, once altar wine decaying back to rain.
No face appears with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
or pray for mercy, grace, reprieve, or beg lethean balm.
Coiled candle sticks! Their iron claws no longer loom the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since night lit up, and innocence dissolved in melted tracks.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak .
The parapets... unoccupied, with neither voice nor crier
(no cantillation, belfry bells; no Minarets inspire) –
abodes and buildings silhouette their mirthless muted choir.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness meant to slate,
while lanterns, lovely high above, in silent swinging gait,
haunt ballrooms, bars, abandoned now, with no one left to fete.
The steeple tower, stone and steel, drab dagger in the sky!
Its hallowed hall no longer calls, when breezes wander by –
for filled with dread to wake the dead, it’s ceased to sough or sigh.
Sky’s silhouettes show no regrets, neath twilight’s silver shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap their spirits seep, a clutch of clammy clouds.
No things appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
there’s only hollow emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
The sun-bleached bones of those who shone are scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains.
But plaintive tears were never shed, for no one felt the pains.
The castle clocks unwound and blocked! Their peerless speechless spokes
unfurl in black the reigning Night, by spinning off her cloaks
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now phantom things on voiceless swings, like statues made of clay,
watch graveyards groom the marbled tombs, where grievers knelt to pray.
The terrors of a conscience fraught, no longer stalk nearby
to rip the shrouds from curtained clouds, frail fabrics of the sky –
the wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.
And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she sails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow shades of misty tears on sheets of shallow gray.
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
are lying fallow, barren dust, where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.
A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane –
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein –
the fruits of all the labour... lost... ’twas truly all in vain.
No souls appear with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
or paint pale lips with languid laughs to pierce the deathly calm –
they vanished quite a while ago, beneath a neutron bomb.
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
I went to climb upon the moon
And crossed the sky on silver spoon
I wandered wide and far and near
And looked upon our world so dear
But don’t look up to me...
There's very little there to see
And don't look down on fallow ground
Where mystery sulks a secret's found
The privilege is not in being
It's in the honour of what you’re seeing
The journey isn't where you go
But all of what you come to know.
It fits the game
Same keys some screens don’t work
Everything’s already unlocked
I lost myself in the sheets
I begin to wander
When you are lost you find yourself
When you hail the lights
The sack has come undone
Everything is as it is
Becoming a swaying shelter
Keep on running
Run to the horizon
A flash of light at the speed of sound
Fallow the hallow
Like a whistle in the wind
The western wind is blowing in a direction we cant comprehend
First one goes then the other
Followed by the negative number
Just a hop skip and a jump
Trickling down the waterfall
Earths mother will crown me king on the way down
Cruse on past into the allure of the mystic
Just course ahead to that fast lane rubicon
The pace of this race is too fast for me
Time's come for taken' the long way home
Got to get off the Perdition Freeway Bridge
Too long in an unrequited wasteland alone
Trying to keep up with the oncoming traffic
Just leave behind lie fallow hearts of stone
Headed back on down the road less traveled
I could never be the one they needed me to be
Just out of reach is where I‘ll keep my heart
Just out of reach is where I’ll be
Down the road in a cloud of smoke and ashes
Turning back up these twisting dirt road back streets
Climbing up beyond the washboard gravel switchbacks
High atop the timber ridge I’ll fly free
When the moon is full like this it makes me crazy
When the moon is full like this a heart needs a home
Some say love is a handmade gift
Some say you reap just what you sow ...
Coyote she beckons from the distant horizon
Full moon casts her spellbound siren song
Tonight I’ll be dancing naked with the dappled moonbeams
Home alone up on Full Moon Ridge , dancing in the dawn …
...a quickie trying to ditch a felonious funk , purge frustration
while swimming against the gravity of the tides …
not online much right now ,
these days are what they are and writ ...
It was the murky stench of forgotten water
in the depths of an ivy-winding garden
and the autumn leaves which crunch into the mixing bowl
The rotting flesh of their midrib and veins
binding themselves a new life with the arms
which had fallen into the reapers puddle
- this is where they come to die.
Their graves, painting the garden Fallow and Umber
lay buried underneath a distant grey sky
the gloom of an English October is at their wake
and the feet of people
trample on their caskets
no pause for thought
for nature's feeble skeleton
slipping out of breath
for sarah b. kamsin and baxter s. clinton
Sitting in a somnambulatory café in Barnes & Nobles,
writing out the thoughts of mind which are plenty and vociferous,
creating and alone and wandering through vast gulfs and gaps of understanding between tension and testimony,
the twilight of a million pastureheads and pages,
grazing in the sheepwide salt sacks of a cantankerous mossy hound,
praising his Holy Name,
I am carried in the Spirit in this weary same old town,
grounded in the dirt by my misery of hope and failures to abide by the rules of reckoning and short-sighted flaws of apathy floating in sponsorship—
Dazed and drinkstruck,
craving and meatlust,
I cannot reconcile tone from reality,
pathed and yawning and yearning for more difficulty in my life as a hypertone of hypocrisy and utter grandeur of misnomer misinformation acting out upon the treads on the wall,
kicking the distinction of the passing tinctured knowledge to the canisters,
gray stone formalities and philosophies falling towards the capsule bitten sky,
Foundations are bleeding Worcestershire sauce, I shudder to think what’s ahead
Starlit sunlight bleeding truth but draining in a cup, the gondola passages of a train sharing Metamucil munching passengers in the Alpha Centaurian Sector where the heifer titan broods destruction over the nautilus star’s retrograde fiefdom controlling all demises of the destitute Promethean offspring lacing their clocks with wishery, dregs, batteries, and fain—what sighs and whispers nations have been reduced to! (If it had been my child born into the scorn of the centralizing cone pit of the masses, I know not what fallow grave she would gain) Contraceptions of the idle lion’s refuge building up to the titan’s mastery over spineless products spending grace for spleen and camaraderie for arc-structural depose. Swimming through the candle sprawled cages of debutante tails caressing the cornfed characters telling lies or otherwise revealing nothing, for men love to talk in circles, since the days of the Greek, men have loved nothing better than to talk in flames.
I am talking to my friend who is tripping (which I Do not approve of), and I was singing Janis Joplin earlier today, and reading Ginsberg today and reading Kerouac yesterday, might as well commit myself as a full-on revivalist of sorts, because I want to revive everything—everything has a vitality good for people deep within it, for all things created by God are good—all things seek to liberate [through bondage], whether sex or death or philosophy, cultural revolutions or citywide progress, and even though we stumble, creating pornography and money and abortion, we all just want to be free—and we are—free to do what we want—but what then? What comes after freedom? Must it be despair? I do not think so
Alone and wandering through the chaos verdure which is not so chaotic as we think, the void of life which is filled with gladness of the soul, the hurricanes and the storms, the sorrows which come at the mornings touch, we are not so dissimilar with our brethren in chains and collars. Can you see yourself in reflect of the endless demagogue of environmental stimuli carrying weights across the sentinel skies? Is there a sign? Why can’t you listen?
(History&)Hysteria grips the masses who are panicking at their own tyranny, while the true tyrants laugh themselves to sleep and dream on balconies of unending highs and lows on graphing charts and calculators which toy with your endless cathedral mind. Half of culture would vanish if we cleaned up what we have gradually indulged in for oddly philosophical reasons—for every decade’s progress, there is a parallel misinterpretation of these new values, for example, sexual liberation. Sex is a thing words fail to apprehend, like women who often take your words away, but sex is being perverted when it is advertised on billboards and sold on the Internet. But O mild swan, what good grains have you grown to provide! Can you scratch the surface of the pond to fetch a tune of marmalade alternate realities?
It can be said that candid comments about structural integrity of policy count for a great deal more than any factual statements about a person’s life or character—but paradoxically, what is anything worth without a good name, which is built on good actions—for we are all Judges, but likewise, we all deserve to be judged (as any good judge is before he is given a place of authority), but no longer desire to be—whereas demonic fish pad through the skulls of undeterred, undeserving men who have wandered through the sights of a thousand years of perdition, and a cosmic gown of Californian super cosmic sun-dried prunes lays breached open like a threatened gulf, and the weirs of the country dip slowly into the dismal waters….
As it is, listening is a lost art, and consideration an arcanity.
A vast majority of the leaders declare their spirits garnering visual aids and half a mile support whilst the other half leads them on to thinking that they are consumed by their superficial rent-a-space fire for iguana tensions amongst degrading rituals of garroting spending and tempestuous uprising—it does not do the people justice.
The grand piper politician, leading us astray. They promise to do unto us what we have done to ourselves. I myself concern myself with poetry and problems but henceforth I shall be known as Lord Pop-a-doodle, for God talks through the things we love to guide us to the things He loves. And so I should be busy trying to figure out how to fix this world’s political, economic, and social problems. But although the world’s problems are economic and political and social, the root of all evil is spiritual. This is an insurmountable fact.
For what will solve the crises of the Middle East but a resolution of brotherhood? What will cause the fat bankrupters and crowned politicians and calamari money-lenders to sniff at the open lid mercury of evil and begin startling the people by doing good? What will bring the gangs in the streets and the children at home hope? What can motivate the pleasantly humming American family dilly-dalling throughout the day to do something about starvation and poverty? What will drastically restore society? What will cure the teenagers of their soullessness and soul pierced by needles? What will depose dictatorships and fell armies to raise a cry from liberated people in the heavens? What will bring men of different temperament and opposing regards to a table to codify friendships in the flies whizzing around the ceiling? What will save the soul of the world, but the spirit, resurrected? I ask you this.
Defined by the corsage of agrimony, or the controlled demographics of the empire overload, the camera watching the conduit cars and the soft guns and the metal barns and the dust meat, the bank’s flip-the-masses pancake griddler shut-your-pie-holes mcdevil schemes, the rich the millionaires draining welfare, the dangerous matrimony of prodigal shame, the dream is achievable only if you give a lot and take a little with the pain of everyday fare, for people who think that compromising their selves and their personalities is the worse crime do not know how to give, and lose more people then they gain, for they let their idiosyncrasies and indulgences get in the way of forging friendships—same goes with fear of social situations, fear of succeeding, fear of greatness—we would rather indulge ourselves than let ourselves rise to the occasion, which requires giving up a part of ourselves—for a piece of the whole—of transcendence possibly—
Love all things, and oneness with all things is possible, for with love comes knowledge—knowledge that you are being loved in return, and so, you are at one with them—with even the trees, the flowers, and the birds, who can love just as you and I do.
Alone and crying out in the wilderness, like a newborn babe, big-headed and just taking in the world, cosmic vibrations untapered! Alone, Christian and criminally insane! Alone in this still quiet world, with a Man who envisions voids and chaoses, wealth and power! Alone! Alone! So vast, this poetic world, utterly defeated by its own consumption,
The people lining up in institutionalized philosophic drainages, at the mercy of dead men, live men, thinking men, but barely men of action!
All men turning to themselves, left to their own wills, staring into their hands, a fame to their houses, their minds inhabited by so many dead things which are yet alive
Can any man think for himself? Is any man free? Freedom! Man’s definition of freedom yet contains him: to do what one pleases, or to be free of all things that bind. But there is only one source of freedom, and its way is through bondage, for “freedom is not doing what you want, it is being free from doing what you want”
Alone with God!
Barely communicable to people around me, I swirl a spouse of elation and dismay, given unanswerable questions that steadily fade away to rhythmic illusions, their secrets unlocking to me by their very natures!
Alone, stupid and ignorant, fallen and savage, one as I grasping for the deepest of mysteries, the highest of arts,
crawl from the drywall of human ignominy to immolation under divine grace shown to us by the Risen,
who suffered on the Cross of shame for the sake of man’s salvation which is not the mere passing on to heaven,
for such is our reward, but the power to do good on earth,
to live with no concept of self, but passing into a state of glory by God because of your exaltation of God and all things before him,
to possess the power of God over the earth that no man can ever have,
to perceive and know and see all things that God has created,
to be healed and saved of all your wounds and scars inside,
to defeat and laugh into the face of death,
to be freed from all things, even yourself,
to have the power to truly love someone; to do all this while enduring suffering on a human earth, but to be joyful to the brink of madness all the days of your life, because you are forgiven of your sins,
and you are in love with your Creator; all this will be, can be!
It is possible, I say unto you! It is all possible! This daring dream of life, filled with filth, horrors and nightmares we alone know from whence they came deep within us, this dream of life, with its endless negation of existence and the void, it is all true! I know not what I Say, and I Speak as a madman, but I say unto you: I believe in the Redeemer, I believe in my God, I believe in his Spirit, and I believe in the possibility that he can do all things for those who choose to love Him!
Alone I cried! But alone, I was answered!
The path I take depends on my fate.
The path I take is built from society and my privacy.
I strive to create my world, and the adventures I seek.
Life may hold me down but my path was chosen for me.
Not that path I want, but the path of the world.
The path that everyone has to take.
Like a conveyor belt we fallow the path of what we are supposed to be.
We do not find ourselves, we have our ourselves found by someone else.
There is no adventure in the path we have no life beside what the path someone else has chosen for us.
Watching my friends drop out of school
Seeing them get sent away
Watching as they run away; slip away
Watching my friends almost die
Seeing them want to die
Watching as they slowly kill themselves
Watching my friends fall victim to old habits
See them fallow in each other's foot steps
Watching as they form new habits
do all these things
my friends do too
the more outlandish and exotic the settings
the further apart the tides shift
the more real, the closer it gets
distance distilled into fallow tracts of once wild shores
despite crestfallen dips
high rising peaks
if you look through my window
what would you see?
perhaps the skein of illicit thoughts
tangling into Rapunzel hopes
or a latent emissary of a semi shocker prophecy
if you had but the merest inkling
of the unaccountable depth of warrior blood
coursing headlong for acquaintance
of fulfillment of spectacular intimacy
rough, the visions
the significance of this equation
waiting to balance
upon the sills of petulant time
dares little panacea
for it is itself bound by hand and foot
chugging along the eyelashes of fate's decree
can I look through your window?
will I see a casual draping of Indian cloth
behind the deliberate anger that is you?
you cannot know how widely your tutelage
into a ready soul, ready for it all
often, how the mind does play tricks
it sometimes feels as if insouciance
plays center court on stilts
while I grapple confused, patiently
the large view may soon present itself
and I dream so of you
a ten minute watch on my shift
of medium term offering
I run away to the dreams within this packed arena
a still room
half in gentle shadows
she let me in
she told me you'd be here soon
to make myself at home
sweet rose incense in the inside courtyard
lulls my senses
I hate to feel scared
I almost hide away and lock myself
into a tiny closet or the bathroom
a strange room and I'm alone
I wonder where you are
all is ready
hot tisanes on a lacquered tray waits
the hand of one to come
seeming Bento boxes prepared so elegant
heartbeat high anticipate
goof guff, goof guff
shall I leave rather?
drowsy falls upon my eye
I settle down on settee
curl up by the slanted sunrays
throughout the patio door
fountain spritz of droplets
on nature's grey slate flat stones
lids flicker down, fall away
gentle, gentle, fall away
a light tap on the shoulder
who is that??
shudder into conscious reel
I am here...........with you
disbelief floods my every pore
and rising slow, unsteady
and I smile at......... u
In my garden, feral and overgrown,
I bear with branchings of the apple,
Hunched and grey, laden with fallow
Fruits, the tired, knottted fingers die
Each year, under which are baubles
Of sourness and stray, poorly drawn
Circles of fodder even hungry deer
Will not graze upon. The elder tree
Slowly casts itself into Bonsai stone.
Down a valley, in the grades of sun,
Lay a stand of madrones in redden
Fire, with deepest eyes of burnished
Green leaves, some immortal Gorgon
So beauteous, in form and branches
Divine, of Olympian flame, held, atop
Heavenly escarpments by the loving
Skies. I see it for what it is, my love,
Your body and hair, so tawny, so fair,
Though, ever lost to me but in dream,
Are dearly those red branches, a fable,
Your eyes, green as sea, those leaves.