Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.

Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.

For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

There is a passion that rends the skies
dark of pain, to thunder forth
in this suffering world;

Grace that rains and brings forth
an oasis of refuge in this
world weak of flesh;

The spirit rises weighed on the cross
by the suffering inflicted in place
of Barabbases, thousands.

In the dunes of the desert, a call echoes:
husbandsman, tinkerman, everyman,

Never mind the pharisees;
The spirit to the letter is moon
to the mirage.

Weighed down by the burden of life,
you who have been told you deserve
nothing more than the dirt of the earth
you sinner, you sufferer,

A passion calls forth to you. So difficult
indeed is to see the father, aye,
lawmongers, enough for us to see
this humble son of a carpenter here;

O you crushed
under the wagon wheels of time
taste that love by which you are
before Abraham was.
Come, be pillars
in the mansion of your father;

Tiller toiling away in the sweat of life,
you on whose shoulders walk
the sweet-talking liars
who yet enthroned say
you are worth
only more taxation,

You can part waters. You are a miracle.
You drive away ghosts. You can
call the dead to life. Yet you are
love and see no difference
in Mary from Mary,

a secret ocean at the shore of an oasis
to drink of, until we are here
as He is in heaven.

Heaven for us to see and live here
not some unknowable hereafter.

Pro-

Photo-frame on the wall,
beautifully adorned.
Empty.

Snap your hero in.

-logue

Never mind their foibles;
Every fault is just a small weakness
when found in the otherwise great.

Dying to deify,
we are itching to sanctify;

Castigation unabashed,
but, for the struggling everyman.

What if we will never find
another son of a carpenter
who will die preaching love?

Epi-*

In a world starved of messiahs
ready always to worship ever
but be, never,

iconoclasts are icons;

Sentimental impossibilities
in the language of hope
aye, fete-worthy acceptables.

There is a song that skins remember.
A line that resounds in silences.
A form the heart revisits
in fervid recollections.

That you must not speak,
that you must not speak.

Silences can ****.
No need to ask Crusoe.

Stars that explode in suicide:
From aeons of tortuous silences,
from distant companions,
silently cold.

Yes, our silences talk. Sorry, this
was not how it was supposed to be.
Strains of there we go again.

Gulfs of empty spaces between
silent vales, that birth the
mourning winds.

Murmurs leap out like dolphins
out of our silences.

Waiting to hear each other. Past
the dirge at the grave of my errors.

Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.

Dawdle up to a tavern.
Cozy up to the ladies.
Have some fun.

You feel great with the gun.
You want to die a martyr.
Yours is a dead cause.

Revolutions are past.
Revolutions don't work.
The baron you want out
is the hell back soon.
He's got the capital.

The dead die unsung.
Sloganeers rise
on ladders of the dead.

Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.

Fancy cars. Drive around the world.
Throw away the watch. Wear your phone.
4 am queues are so in. Dior, the who?
Thank god: Chrome can stand in
when Mozilla's bonkers.
Drown in likes and wallow in tweets.

Stay drugged. Stay unconcerned.
Pack up your rage and light a bonfire.
May be the smoke will
plug the holes in our skies.

It's all over.
An unmarked grave is all you get.
Gun or some fun.

Whose cause do you want to benefit?

I.

The door stands outlined in white:
in this dark night, a presence
weighs in from the corridor.

The fan holds a garbled reflection
of stray light on its illusory blade-disk.

I'm talking about parthenogenesis.

How can renewal be born, when
creativity loses her companion,
freedom?

This monotone life lugs on.

II.

The tree shrugs the question off
by her parting arms half-illumined
by the streetlamp.

The late bird of five calls flew away
to a far-off tree, couldn't be
bothered more.

I hear a voice
soft in the setting chill of the distant autumn:
choked eyes beaming in love.

I seek palingenesis.

Check all emails and ensure zero
unread. But
answer none, follow up
nothing.

Umpteenth time through the day.

III.

Autotomy all over again.
Habits
die like tails, to be grown
all over again.

This is an etiological myth.
An apocryphal story that
renews itself on the palimpsest of life.

I must cut my nails.

This tea has brewed too dark.

When the moment arrives, it arrives like this:

Dark, like the hour of the silent stars
the hour of the shrill crickets,
the hour of waning hopes,

when all is dark
in my soul:

Friend, at this moment,
I cease the world;
At this moment,
just you and I in the entire universe;
Silent companion, guardian
of the door to all mysteries,

the cause of all causes,
if I must reason like that,
or an unknowable vast,

unknowable, as I am, now,
but an essential knowledge
in some mystic part
of my own hidden,
concealed being,

if I am of sterner stuff than
the pyres that churn out the stars,
if I am of firmer strength than
the cutting arms of time,

reveal this now, friend,
for this is my dark hour,
the loneliest hour
before the eclipsed dawn.