Still like a Granite I stand
on the grass that cuts veins
and the dusty snow.
Incapable of moving,
frozen to the deep,
a far away sound slowly fades away:
It's my heart,
Pumping weak.

Enlightens My days of darkness,
Artificial Light,
Weak violet blow of a violent decay
Thunder of rough emotions
Exploding and burning and bursting
In the remote obscure hollows of my head.

This it is; Where pure passion is emanated,
Runs away to the very edge of curiosity
A traveller through the infinite skies
Of my bare human intelligence.

Light of darkness
Expression of sudden expiry
And simultaneous rebirth.
Light of veracity
Reveals and destroys and remakes
As the majority abruptly yells about.
Light of my dreams
Golden thing
On this soil of broken faith.

All of a sudden, sneaking bull,
my cacophonous orchestra wavers
as a sharp blade has sat in my brain.
Boiling gurgling twanging
My mind cracks and gasps
And gulps, when the veracious grace of light
glances out of the waves of my lost sea.
Glorious the way it shows off,
Harsh the way it acts and plays.

And yet Lives and gives life, it is Light.
Speeding through the windows of our soul,
it measures with my fortitude's eyes.
And yet is light
The only source of truth.
And yet,
on this soil of broken faith.

So why, for godness sake, should we avoid her natural touch?

Surrounded entirely and circled

By a greedy wave of dancing pigeons

The white pudding sings frowning

revolting bulk of Golden fat

Proud food for his seagulls.

Facing the torches of God, he babbles

While a moaning rumble like a choir of dwarves

Awakens the worms beneath the church

Rotten temple of another age.



Jailed in my suit and tie, I Sweat, choked

by the dusty ostentation, once

sparkling in copper red skulls, and

(did I do the sign of the cross?)

everyone of us, without exception

we watch at the girl in the front-row sit.

Excuse me, sorry Madam - smile, run, escape:

it's sunny outside the Mass

and the floor is caving in.