The dead fly sat sanitised.
Now,
with failed, clipped wings
he feasts with Kings
and he’ll never know the difference

At the feast for heathens,
I raised a toast to those
who raised themselves
in the fickle fallout
of human nature,
with pop-culture parents,
we chose our own fathers
and married our mothers.
For when the sacred lights of life
died out in the eyes of Apollo,
and Dionysus prowled the avenues
hunting out a new mirror for a mate,
the helping hands slipped away,
into the newly shadowed hollows
where all grace was laid to waste,
in the darkest depths
of the newborns day.

Now,
in this nuclear winter,
where all the Gods have died or been deserted,
I walk that razor ridge
of romanticism and ambition,
(where anchored dreams
are want to hide)
just to see how far I’ll fall
when my darkest demons
harken the call.
Humbled by the writings
on my skulls inner wall;
truthful hymns which
will mend the wings
of my inner poet and stoic
to see how tenaciously he’ll crawl,
to see his tendency for tender brawls,
to see him arise as the builder
within the razed rubble of Rome;
the only God I’ll ever need
for fashioning a home

So,
if you too have been abused,
and sacred love has left you bruised,
when searching for your answer,
seek out the dancer within your soul,
for the collateral is substantial my dear,
when you walk on broken bones

Oh youth,

sweet dreams will be the death of me,
requiems for reveries are necessity
to resurrect that which has lived in me

I’ll tune in my inner vision
with fruition of ambition
that defies dead eyed misery.
I’ll fight to see you soon

When the world tries to tell you who you are,
but you feel in your gut who you REALLY are,
and all you can do is smile back at the world
and throw back your head
and howl in the face of adversity,

if you are liberated from deception
of all of which is inside your control
and outside your control
and readily accept the latter,
like a nonchalant savant

if you are a disciple to discipline
and know that backing down and submitting to the insidious insanity
of a day-to-day charade
is not even an option,
regardless of all the cool comforts it offers
in lieu of the heat of the coals you walk upon,

then and only then
will you become the master of your destiny

I want to change the world,
but I cannot change my mind.
Ten thousand years of bad behaviour haunts my DNA,
it’s going to take a coup;
The seizing of hypodermics of the working day,
its going to take a courageous venture into the mists.

For this brave new circus which the clowns all call CIVILisation
is only civil as far as the pig can spit,
it’s as civil as a civil war.
Irony is lost on the blind nestled within the dark,
harkening to the whispering shadow,
so fine-tuned they think it the light.

Its a bleak sunset of business as usual.
The judgement of some higher power on this
will be cast into the same sty where the enlightened fester,  
where all new thoughts are smeared in ****
where all the stoic poets weep.
But only if
We do not change our minds.

Liberation and love wait for the collective
we are One and One is all
The End must be rejected

Those that weep,
oh weep ‘neath the shadowy, masked spectre of dreamless sleep,
where time refuses to define the state of the lost divine.
These are feeble sheep whom tragedy is want to reap,
whom when faced with fire turn away from the truth of its healing heat,
it is the Shepard’s of the herd who hurdle false virtues with tenacious leaps.

But why oh why should the best of mankind’s minds all dwell on the tortured side of hell?
They either submit to their anguished musings
or are crowned with the fruits of their immaculate offerings,
there is no compromise.
But who has brought back from the abyss, the truth of it?
and who only offers the seedlings of their sufferings?

Was it Nietche shielding the beaten beast of burden?
Was it Mark Twain is his converse between young and old,
of which motor best foretold mans immortal soul?
Was it Nero playing his fickle fiddle whilst Rome was razed to rubble?
Was it Jim Morrison dying with his wine upon the vine
whilst Indian ghosts crowned his fragile eggshell mind?
Was it Bobby Dylan with his ever changing soul touching his bones via lucrative lexicon?
Was it Julias Ceaser as he crossed with hardened heart across the rubicon?
Was it Buddha sitting ‘neath the quiet of his tree whilst the void whispered to thee?
Was it Jack Kerouac upon that rolling road of soulful life,
embracing with equal measure all love and ceaseless strife?
Was it the nameless brave whom have been lost to the ages
of times endlessly cascading pages?
Will it be You in your pursuit
of what your inner vision holds true?
Will it be me in my turbulent sea of bleeding dreams?
None can say but death itself, for he holds the skeleton keys

I will fall in love with just about anyone.
Providing I see their dreams divine-shine explode from the dynamo within their eyes,
like a supernova on a celestial course of chaotic creation of colour,
cracking all dark clouds of thunder asunder,
I will fall

So long as I see the sacredness of hope in simple joys
emanate from their heart and out through the mouth
to infect the minds of those cursed with the dizziness of rational thinking,
I will fall

Even to hear the cathartic tremble in their voice
from all their inner ploys cut through the white noise
(The most transcendent of insecurities, stark and alone, a beacon of hope)
I will fall

The very second I can confide enough judgement in their ability to give love to even the most unworthy reveller
I will fall
hard and harder still,
down,
down,
down
like a helter-skelter or clown
in a circus of circumstance.

I cannot help it,
maybe I’ve been loved too little,
maybe in a world so dark, its simply a blessing to see all the colours of light,
or maybe my own soul just instinctively craves for the very best in humanity.
Maybe its all there,
coursing like ****** within my veins,
tho unlike a ****** seeking out his poison
I desire overdose,
No, I need overdose.
Mediocrity is reserved for unimpassioned swine, lost within the confines of their bitter minds,
critics and pessimists be ******.
For the gentle warmth of grace found within a friend or lovers inner beauty
must be relished and protected
lest regret later be dissected
when all that remains
are dust and memories.

But like all overdoses on indulgence,
there is a fee to be paid,
regardless if impassioned or bleak.
For when the faith in fate goes up in flames
the burning of Rome is all the more bittersweet.
Thus, when Nero’s fickle fiddle plays
to the tune of terminal velocity
the broken-hearted ache
on the fringe of terminal ferocity.

Love will always be worth this death,
no matter the devastating depth.
I will go down punching for it to my last, living breath