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Shining pearls of metallic rain
Jettison vertical, a thousand picture perfect
Puncture wounds
Bleeding light, both hands pointing skyward
A world sleeps, not all dream
Blissfully ignorant
Of the raging storm
Lightning flashing, clouds crashing
YHWH awakens
The nightmare ends
My feet displace the thorny grass beneath
My
Tender
Gentle feet
Trickles
Gooey cohorts
If I could turn away
Run as fast as I can from the places and people
They all want to cheer him up
Gone tomorrow

Why am I even concerned
These people need nothing to move
Once I cared
Until I saw the food
It's where I groomed myself for something I'M not so sure tonight
This is about accidentally offending a friend on a grabbed level. It's also very apologetic
If you've hurt me
I've forgiven you
Honestly
I have
If you've let me down
Deserted me
Pushed me to the ground
I have forgiven you

Not with hollow words
Forgotten when the memory
Comes back around to taunt me
When the past comes back to haunt me
But knowing full well
I have hurt somebody else
Let somebody down
Left someone when they needed me

You didn't have to ask
I did it for myself
To compass the distance
The east flees from the west
To see if I could do it
Though I never could alone
Break my prideful begrudging
On the precious cornerstone

And though I know you didn't ask me
You are forgiven
And you might not even want it
You are forgiven
And I don't expect a thing from you
You are forgiven
For I've been given
A reason to let it all go
The needle falls down on the record, a thump deep in the bass, the speaker cone shakes and the sound ocean floods from my Serwin-Vegas...That alien who stepped out of the saucer in Close Encounters of the Third Kind decides to speak to Dreyfuss, and this is what it sounds like. This is the language of his planet, on the other side of a black hole in the Gamma region.

A ****** of crows, cold in the snow, muttering low, squeaking and squealing. Love taking on flesh and blood, suffocated by skin, now let's let the service begin. They sing their gut-hungry praises then flitter away.

Signifying nothing.

The priest places the wafer on the infidel's tongue. He lifts the cup to the liar's lips. A subtle glow emitted from a place slightly behind his head. He intones the Mass and tries to empty himself to allow the Holy Spirit to work through him as he ministers in the name of Jesus Christ to his congregation. The Spirit lifts up his voice to the sky and intercedes for my weak soul.

These chants are ancient, as old as the book of Genesis. These are the languages of the Mishraites or the Zareathites or the Eshtaulites. These are the tongues spoken by Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak and Shuah. A language taught to them by their slave ancestors, excommunicated from the clans of Sarah, mother of the promised. A language used by Abraham himself, when he beckoned Isaac to the land of Moriah, making him carry the sacrificial knife soon held to his throat.

The procession moves forward, each recieving the body and blood in turn, enriched and better for recieving it. They walk like slaves submitting to a kind master they love to serve back to their seats in the cathedral, to wait, to get lost in the sacred relics and the sacred art scattered throughout this beautiful sanctuary.

And surely the Lord is in this place, for all that is good is from the Lord and this music is exceptionally good.

The chanting continues, now sung in the language of Baal-Zephon, where the king went after the Israelites, translated: "Wasn't there enough room in Egypt to bury us? Is that why you brought us out here to die in the desert? Why did you bring us out of Egypt, anyway? While we were there didn't we tell you to leave us alone? We had rather be slaves in Egypt than die in this desert!..."

These tone poems, written in the days of the Exodus, have a modern sound to them that is uncanny. Aliens who landed on earth in 897 BC bestowed gifts of prophecy and tongues to the individual members of Sigur Ros, and they are merely tools at the disposal of the leader of the aliens in their attempts to express themselves to the earthlings. No, there's no way any of us not from their planet could ever understand their language, borrowed as it was from the priests, Zadok and Abiathar in a meeting held on Mount Calvary the last time they landed on earth. The chord progressions are subliminally tainted with commands to relax, encourage a sense of floating, drift off with the thoughts that interest you most.

A looping tribal dance, recorded on site at a Buddhist monastary where the monks would mumble polyphonic OMs and the tourists would catapult their spirits through a needle's eye just to show that it can be done... Are they praying for rain? Or is it a rich harvest they petition the Great Spirit for today, their knees to the ground? The dance turns into an ****, bodies tangled up misplaced pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

They **** the whale, and so we mourn.

They fester hate like a sore that won't go away, so we sing this lamentation. Translation: "The Son wants you...Hear things in the music that aren't there, only in your hammer struck head. Ring the living bell, ring the living bell, shine the living light, shine the living light...

They incite aggression, so we back off.

They treat the blind man with scorn and contempt, so we judge them.

They are good for nothing but fighting your wars, their stone hardened hearts too far gone to notice each life snuffed out under orders from ground patrol. So we pray for conflict. We petition the Lord for strife and dischord. Exterminate these burned-out husks of men before their 4 years are up.

They lay hands upon the genius and lock him in institutions with people who pull steak knives on strangers. They are afraid of him, so they put him away, in sweat-stinking padded cells or wrapped up nice and tight in a strait, mornings awake and hustled to the breakfast line. They extricate his confidence, thought pattern by thought pattern, and curb the flow of his intellect. They leave us to sing a funeral song for the postmodern society on the day when common sense is evenly distributed among individuals and Moral Law is accepted as fact by each and all. A dirge for each time you've ever been hurt by someone's words or actions. Our common denominator of heartache and sorrow. Divided about all other things, by necessity united by tears, wailing, howling at the moon, primal scream therapy and insomnia.

And now the church is empty. Angels lingering to usher the Spirit from the echoing halls. Silence and stillness brutal proof of God. Music from the other side of this life. Welcoming songs played at St. Peter's Gate. Stubborn prayers from those passed over, coaxing us through, waiting with scissors at the ready to snip the mortal coil. Believers bellys full of the body and blood of the Lord, processing it at this very moment, letting the body do it's digestive work, preparing it for re-birth.

This music is a hand reaching out and over the chasm of being to grab and pull you into another reality for a few moments. For a few moments you will experience the world from the viewpoint of Jon, Orri, Georg & Kjartan. It is an exhilirating sensation, coveted by all.

This music is the voice of Thor, the cries of Aphrodite, the sins of Baal, the dreams of Pontius Pilate, the sound of coyotes cuddled in a cave, wailing at the moon. This music is the war of the worlds. It's release. ******. A little death. Afterglow then off to sleep. Waking to Philip Glass, inspired to listen to him by Sigur Ros.

The needle is yanked from the record and silence and stillness return to claim their divinity.
Ease me down gently into the Dream
Forget what I see, forget what I've seen
Hold me down softly, free me from sin
All that I am, all I have ever been
Gently, son, gently
Into the dream

Make me a home now, deep in your heart
So that time and space won't keep us apart
To dwell in your memory, free of the shame
As years and forgetting atone for the blame
A home, son, my home
Within your heart

Sing me a sweet song to put me to sleep
The one that I gave you and told you to keep
Until the day came I would need it again
To scare away gods and demons and men
No sad songs, son
But sing me to sleep

Remind me, my son, of the things that I said
Of no looking back, only straight ahead
Today is no different, though my eyes cannot see
This place where I go that my mind can't conceive
teach me again, son
These lessons I've taught you

One last thing now, before I begin
This eternal journey that starts at the end
Of a life filled with love, my last wish will be
Take mine with you, son, I'll take yours with me
Before I begin, son,
Ease me into the Dream
Somewhere up yonder
A roll is to be called
One day and on that day
Rest assured
I will be there

I can't help it
I haven't felt it
But I think about it all the time
Whole notes are ghosts
Too often trodded upon
Lost in evolution
Or left behind
In the chase for nausea and bliss
I think about it all the time

You were expecting a circus?
Relax, baby, why you so nervous?
Settle down, babe, here, hit this
It'll redefine the term "circus"
You'll easily catch the blatant innuendo
Poorly hidden between the lines
A sort of circus envy for air-breathing man
Burning and bleeding man
The arrows which pierced Sebastian
Were meant for me and you

Who wants to listen to a little Duran Duran?
What?
Nobody?
Even if it's "Hungry Like the Wolf"?
Especially "Hungry Like the Wolf"!
The white wolf does get hungry
But it does not sit around ******* and moaning
Complaining about trivialities
London's infamous fang
Taught me everything I know
About wolves
This knowledge and understanding,
Almost a transferral of will,
Has saved my *** on many a treachorous occasion

McCartney...Sir McCartney...James Paul McCartney
I would likely have been much more popular in school
Had you chosen to use instead of choosing to be called Paul
You were called, Paul
Paul, you were called
Paul, you were called to a ministry
Of healing
Healing of the soul
Paul, you were called
Many things by a few
Their critical words vanished
****** into the void, infused with pollen
Your majesty's a pretty nice girl
McCartney won't you join me on my death bed
I called out to you as I was dying
I saw it clearly with my own two eyes
A prophecy, true and sure
Psychotic Messiah, Paul McCartney
You live in the future, you live in the past
But you die and are raised every moment by moment
Psychotic Messiah, not GG Allin
Who loseth thy soul long before severing thy mortal coil
Opening his heart to the foulness
Reveling in degradation
Pain blunted by much heavy use
Who drinks down deep the costliest grace
Without knowing
That
A trumpet will sound and a roll will be called
And if you're breathing the air
You're gonna be there
It doesn't matter what you think
Or what you believe or you do not believe
Justice is and will be served
Love overcomes hate in the moment


I can't pretend you give a rat's ***
For the words that are spurting from my brain
I won't pretend I ain't hurting, I'm not a Superman
My mind has deserted me more often than I remember

It's Dracula at the door, dear
Won't you let him in?
What's that you say?
The paths that Dracula doth trod
Are enshrouded with the fog of decay
None which pass his gaze are safe
From death and damnation
I beseech thee, leave the door open until he leaves.
I say, won't we be considered discourteous to our guest here?
Let the heathen think it if they so please
This visitation must be the portent of some novel evil
Hideous harbinger of an unhappy day
When the roll is called up yonder
When the trumpet is sounded I'll blow my own horn
You'll hear it for miles carried by a north wind
You may not recognize it as the trumpet of heaven
It might sound a lot like Miles Davis to you
Turning that horn into a life force

I can't help it, you know I can't help it
All the singers on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 are dead
I could be wrong but it's hard to imagine anyone living that long
They're dead as doornails and some flat plain forgotten
And it's a super ****** world that'll do that to you
Ride to the top, the top of the charts
Dig your way into a million hearts
Some forgotten, some revered
They sang they're song
Now they're gone
And that's why I'm gonna listen
Gotta  pay my respects to the old crew
They never knew new wave or metal or punk
Brains not contaminated with that horrid boy band junk
They knew a good tune when they heard one
They carried that weight for a short while
Everybody knows the voice of a singer
Is a glimpse into his soul, her beautiful soul
A glimpse most would die for
Even if for a day
A long day and tiring, glad for sleep
With it she shares more than even she knows
Understand that an aeon begins and ends
As surely as the day
Dude is wide awake
His waking void understill
Five minuteplastic
The water congeals loudly
In front of his tonsure
Explode out of oceans of salt
To empty that illuminated ditch
When he parts
She supine in other days
Out of a matter filled gas
Over the shell of wellness
Or feather brush
The risen Antigone
Stuffed in her tonsure
Obviously never hearing the lie
Which carries darkness
Away from valleys of pride
The silence of the watchful Dullard
A cold stillness
******* in the forms
Exposing the Moon

She ****** medicine out of her mother's
Nose
Crawled clothed
Into her father's chair

Healing her mother's solidity
("Forget her")
Easy to remember the day
After the wake
She was found in the concrete
And the mother stuck in
Her grown-up gums

She tears his sickness
Not an apathetic ****
Away from him, black tendon
Reinforcing his unity
Without blunt gums
Eternity is drawing her hateful grunts
Of none these abrasive poems

We were a tiny Tonsure
Of the naked ***
Or a pristine sweetbird
Those sated turkeys are cowards
Empty of reverence
The sands were still
Of the red corpuscles
In that second spirit
Our divorce was undone

Sated
Against the white Moon out of his foot
Sated in the noise
This chills
The rejected plans of the impossible
That flitter on possibilities
Look behind ye
The rottings of all that remains
Never staring into
Junkyards of roses

Physical waterspray
Waking forest man
And she, last of the truly ignorant
A whisp burying opiates
Nightmares
And the obvious
Potent dwarves squinting up
From tiny depths
On those haters
Who cool
And freeze
And remain inert, careless, the missing stumps
They stop shrinking
"You lose what you don't want"
He tells her
His oft-described tonsure
Was in his toenails

"Confidence is a weak malady
Go away waking octogenarian
Go to sleep, Go to sleep..."
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