Apr 2018
take a look, naive prince,
in the night,
at the cemetery of Catholics,
with each all saints' day,
with each easter,
i fall asleep with the same
number of candles lit,
fireflies,
i, sole among the living
willing to embark,
watch in the shadows,
the resurrected glue
that binds the baltic to the black sea...
fireflies in memorandum,
death bows before the candle's itch,
what came last in form of ash,
first come without crown
to turn all ash to wax...
hybrid souvenir!
tow heart, and pray for sea's dear
depth, to anchor posit,
sinking, sinking,
depth morose....
that sudden near,
a fabled lost refrain in burqa:
cleaved clean from a chicken's neck:
tender, tender, most tender of
all organs, the muscles of
a chicken croak rise...
Judas my woe, kin,
plagiarism of an Englishman's "sorry"...
the graves glistened like falling stars,
to hell with Luther, Calvin, Knox et al...
so st. Augustine cleaves to a shudder,
and a jest via Mozart
of turning in ones grave:
theatre mortalum....
theatre of the mortals....
morality and mortality...
fictive liturgy...
but of course the laughing muslim and the latext
****...
even with my grandfather's praecox
alzheimer's... I find a patience with,
more rewarding, that listening to this western
pedagogy turned idology narrative
as compelling concentrative posits
worth est. an inquiry...
just another guide of a 1000th blah
times later.
the banquet still resides to testimony,
a hundred or so lit candles in a graveyard,
is my hour of night's recompensation's worth
of peace... some might call it
a metaphor of the rupture...
***** icons,
with only a mongol to cling to steppe
iconoclasm...
the dust settles...
from clay came wax,
and a halo of fire to extinguish
the tiresome waters of tearsome
lost forgotten,
never as such, bred forgotten...
strange... to deem a dog
by its anti-existential worth,
i.e. traded...
prince and that pauper...
pedigree and the mongrel...
by 5am i have nothing
left in me but a bidding to safeguard
a universal, goodnight.
in the night,
at the cemetery of Catholics,
with each all saints' day,
with each easter,
i fall asleep with the same
number of candles lit,
fireflies,
i, sole among the living
willing to embark,
watch in the shadows,
the resurrected glue
that binds the baltic to the black sea...
fireflies in memorandum,
death bows before the candle's itch,
what came last in form of ash,
first come without crown
to turn all ash to wax...
hybrid souvenir!
tow heart, and pray for sea's dear
depth, to anchor posit,
sinking, sinking,
depth morose....
that sudden near,
a fabled lost refrain in burqa:
cleaved clean from a chicken's neck:
tender, tender, most tender of
all organs, the muscles of
a chicken croak rise...
Judas my woe, kin,
plagiarism of an Englishman's "sorry"...
the graves glistened like falling stars,
to hell with Luther, Calvin, Knox et al...
so st. Augustine cleaves to a shudder,
and a jest via Mozart
of turning in ones grave:
theatre mortalum....
theatre of the mortals....
morality and mortality...
fictive liturgy...
but of course the laughing muslim and the latext
****...
even with my grandfather's praecox
alzheimer's... I find a patience with,
more rewarding, that listening to this western
pedagogy turned idology narrative
as compelling concentrative posits
worth est. an inquiry...
just another guide of a 1000th blah
times later.
the banquet still resides to testimony,
a hundred or so lit candles in a graveyard,
is my hour of night's recompensation's worth
of peace... some might call it
a metaphor of the rupture...
***** icons,
with only a mongol to cling to steppe
iconoclasm...
the dust settles...
from clay came wax,
and a halo of fire to extinguish
the tiresome waters of tearsome
lost forgotten,
never as such, bred forgotten...
strange... to deem a dog
by its anti-existential worth,
i.e. traded...
prince and that pauper...
pedigree and the mongrel...
by 5am i have nothing
left in me but a bidding to safeguard
a universal, goodnight.
