YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER ON AUSTRALIA DAY, MATEY



HI DUDES, IT’S JANUARY 26TH, AND WE MUST CELEBRATE

THE DAY WE WERE INVADED BY CONVICTS, YA SEE MATE

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

AND BECAUSE OF THAT IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

JUST LIKE I DID, I HEAR MATES SAYING, YOU GOTTA HAVE A BEER FOR AUSTRALIA DAY, WHY

WHAT IS WRONG WITH COKE, COKE IS FROM AUSTRALIA

AND THE MEN SAID, WE MUST DRINK BEER, WE MUST DRINK BEER

WE ARE DESCENDANT FROM CONVICTS, AND IT’S IN OUR CULTURE TO DRINK

WE LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY

OH YEAH, BOW BOW, WE DRINK EVERY BEER UNDER THE TABLE, AND GET BLIND

YEAHH GET WASTED, MAN, WASTED, MAN

AND THEN COOK A BEAUTIFUL LAMB CHOP ON THE BBQ, DUDES

YEAH IT SOUNDS RADICAL, SO RADICAL, LIVING IN AUSTRALIA, WITH A CAN OF BEER AND A NICE LAMB

EXCUSE ME EXCUSE ME, THERE ARE 2 LAMBS HERE

YEAH, IF THEY ARE BOTHERING YA, WE’LL HAVE ‘EM REMOVED

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY

THE ONLY REASON I LIKE AUSTRALIA DAY IF, IS THE NICE AUSTRALIA DAY BBQ BREAKFAST AT COMMONWEALTH PARK, IT SOUNDS SO RAD

AUSTRALIANS DRINK THEIR BEER, AND PROUD TO DRINK THEIR BEER

GET BLIND AND END UP IN THE DITCH, I LIKE HOW AUSTRALIANS PARTY ON AUSTRALIA DAY, IT’S COOL

BUT THEN THEY STILL THINK IT’S COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK, NO IT’S NOT COOL TO DRIVE HOME DRUNK

BUDDHA DOESN’T APPROVE OF DRINKING LOUTS, EITHER DOES CRONUS, WHO IS ME

NO, I BELIEVE IN A GOOD CLEAN PARTY, A PARTY, WHERE EVERYONE, I MEAN EVERYONE RICH OR POOR ARE SAFE

I AM THE COOL PEOPLE’S LITTLE SKATEGOAT, AND I AM A BIT OF A SILLY GOAT

CAUSE, I KNOW MY STORIES ARE HELPING A LOT OF PEOPLE

WE DO LIVE HERE IN AUSTRALIA, MATE, WHERE WE LIVE IN A CULTURE OF REAL COOL PARTY GOERS

AND THE PROBLEM IS, THEY TAKE THE PARTY ON TO BEING KILLED OR KILLING SOME INNOCENT FAMILY

AND CRONUS, WHO IS ME DOESN’T ALOOW THIS, I AM NO OLD FOGIE I JUST CARE FOR THE WELLBEING OF MY FELLOW, MAN

I LIKE THE IDEA, OF PEOPLE LEAVINGT EACH OTHER ALONE, IF I DON’T WANT TO DRINK WITH YOU, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO

CARE FOR YA FELLOW MAN, THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY PHILOSOPHY

I RESPECT YOU AS LONG AS YOU FOLLOW THE PARTY CODE, LIKE ME

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO HAVE A FEW BEERS, YEAH MATE YEAH YEAH I’M RAD

AND THEN MR FRED HAMILTON, WHO IS A FIRM BELIEVER IN POOR RIGHTS

SAW SOME DRUNKS PICKING ON A HOMELESS MAN, SAYING, YOU ARE NOT A REGULAR AUSTRALIAN, YOU HAVEN’T GOT A BEER

AND FRED CAME UP AND SAID, YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE YOU BUNCH OF CRAZY DRUNKS

HE IS HOMELESS, HE CAN’T AFFORD BEER, HE CAN’T AFRORD WINE, LEAVE HIM ALONE AND FRED GAVE THE HOMELESS MAN $50 TO SPEND HOW HE SEES FIT

FRED SANG WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN OUR CULTURE IN AUSTRALIA TO DRINK AND TREAT THE HOMELESS PEOPLE LIKE DIRT, THE HOMELESS ARE JUST TRYING TO FIT IN

AND THEY BECAUSE OF TONY ABBOTT, THEY ARE FORCED TO EAT THEIR ******* FROM A BIN

THEY ARE TRYING TO FIT IN, TO SOCIETY, WHEN NOBODY GIVES A WINK

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY, THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S IN AUSTRALIA’S CULTURE TO DRINK ON AUSTRALIA DAY, HAVE A BEER, AND GET INTO A FIGHT, MAKES YOU A REAL AUSTRALIAN, I DON’T BELIEVE IN VIOLENCE IN THAT WAY

ENJOY DRINKING AND GETTING ******, BUT I SAY, NO VIOLENCE, I SAY NO VIOLENCE

WHY DO YOU WANT VIOLENCE ANY WAY, PEOPLE JUST END UP GETTING HURT, IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

IF YA WANNA FIGHT, TAKE UP BOXING, WHERE THE OTHER PERSON WANTS TO FIGHT ALSO

TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING, TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING TOO MANY PEOPLE GET KILLED FROM ILLEGAL FIGHTING

THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH CELEBRATING AUSTRALIA DAY, MATE, BUT KEEP THE VIOLENCE OFF THE STREET, UMMMMMMM ME WHO IS CRONUS HAS SPOKEN AND SPOKEN I SHALL

WE ALL LIVE IN THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY THE CONVICT COLONY

IT’S AUSTRALIA DAY MATE, BY ALL MEANS PARTY, HAVE A BBQ, ENJOY THE FESTIVITIIES, JUST LIKE ME

BUT BE GOOD PEOPLE, YOU ****** WELL SEE

AND THEN I WALKED IN THE ROOM, CRACKED OPEN A COKE CAN AND SAY HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY EVERYONE, AND BE GOOD

I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
  For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
  When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
  In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
  Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
  A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
  “That fellows got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
  Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some **** their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
  Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
  And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
  Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
  The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
  To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
******* a watch whose little ticks
  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
  That sands one’s throat, before
The hangman with his gardener’s gloves
  Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
  The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
  Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
  Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
  For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
  The kiss of Caiaphas.


II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
  In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
  Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
  In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
  Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
  Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
  Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
  A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
  With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
  So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
  That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
  With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
  For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
  Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer’s collar take
  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
  When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
  Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
  We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
  Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
  Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
  In the black dock’s dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
  In God’s sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
  We had crossed each other’s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
  We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
  Two outcast men were we:
The world had ****** us from its heart,
  And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
  Had caught us in its snare.


III

In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,
  And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
  Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
  His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
  And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
  The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
  A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
  And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
  No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
  The hangman’s hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
  No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher’s doom
  Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
  To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
  Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
  Could help a brother’s soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
  We trod the Fool’s Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
  The Devil’s Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
  With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
  And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
  We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
  And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
  Crawled like a ****-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
  That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
  Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
  To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
  On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
  Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
  Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
  Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
  In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
  And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
  Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
  That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
  Another’s terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
  To feel another’s guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
  Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
  Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
  Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
  The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
  Was the savior of Remorse.

The **** crew, the red **** crew,
  But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
  In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
  Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
  Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
  Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
  They trod a saraband:
And the ****** grotesques made arabesques,
  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
  They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
  As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
  For they sang to wake the dead.

“Oho!” they cried, “The world is wide,
  But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
  Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
  In the secret House of Shame.”

No things of air these antics were
  That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
  And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
  Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
  But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
  Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
  The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
  We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
  Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
  That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
  God’s dreadful dawn was red.

At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,
  At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
  The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
  Had entered in to ****.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
  Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
  Are all the gallows’ need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
  Of filthy darkness *****:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
  Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,
  And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
  It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
  Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
  That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
  Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
  Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man’s heart beat thick and quick
  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
  Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
  Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
  From a ***** in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
  In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
  Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare
  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
  That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the ****** sweats,
  None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.


IV

There is no chapel on the day
  On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,
  Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
  And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
  Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God’s sweet air we went,
  But not in wonted way,
For this man’s face was white with fear,
  And that man’s face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
  Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
  They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
  Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
  And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
  With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
  The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
  And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
  Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
  And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were ***** and span,
  And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
  There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
  By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
  Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
  Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
  Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
  And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
  Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
  Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer’s heart would taint
  Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God’s kindly earth
  Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
  Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
  Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
  Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
  May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
  Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
  A common man’s despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
  Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
  By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who ***** the yard
  That God’s Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
  Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
  That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
  At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
  Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
  They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
  Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
  And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
  And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
  By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
  That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
  To Life’s appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
  Pity’s long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
  And outcasts always mourn.


V

I know not whether Laws be right,
  Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
  Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
  That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
  And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
  If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
  Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
  And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
  For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
  Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
  That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
  Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
  And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
  Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
  Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
  In Humanity’s machine.

The brackish water that we drink
  Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
  Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
  Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
  For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
  Becomes one’s heart by night.

With midnight always in one’s heart,
  And twilight in one’s cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
  Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
  To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
  Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life’s iron chain
  Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
  And some men make no moan:
But God’s eternal Laws are kind
  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
  In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
  Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean *****’s house
  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
  And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
  And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
  And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
  The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
  Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
  His soul of his soul’s strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
  The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
  And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
  Became Christ’s snow-white seal.


VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
  There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
  Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
  In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
  Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
  And so he had to die.

And all men **** the thing they love,
  By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

What is literature to a convict?
with his name erased from his shirt, his memory
sitting in a warm chair
his only poetry is the girls he sees from across the glass
with jargon hanging from their sweaters
hem untied, tongue tied
“I want to live in a hotel” he tells his social worker
“all the way on the last floor at the very end of the hallway
I want the privacy in every suburban bedroom to be a joke
and I’ll laugh so ******* loud”
this prisoner has never killed a man
but his gums always bleed, like boiled beets
what is lost to a convict?
nothing, if you’ve searched long enough for it
“I don’t read, I have the best works inside my head
not memorized by pleasure, but by force
like a bullet to my knee, like a birthmark
not small enough to hide.”
“baby, I used to be a free man sometime”
and he was. He was free but he was also alone
a felon in his own right, grew a mustache
when he was only 15 and lonely
Walking alone one night he stumbled upon neon signs
upon god’s fruit, not everything is dressed in flowers
but a woman with caramel legs doesn’t need such luxuries
under dim lights, under smooth songs
this man found heaven to be boring
but the malaise in the gates of paradise
made candy melt down tight skin
“so this is fair. to be accompanied by hell
I could almost buy you a drink” he tells her
he tells her
he tells her
he tells her again
she smiles
this is not indulging
this is business
she used to write those words
on cigarette wrappers
until she could say it in her sleep
no love for poor men
and why does he wear a suit with a stain on it?
What a fool, she thinks
but this suit
this calamity of an accessory
was worn by that man’s
best friend
before, before the world turned cruel
before he knew what the difference
was between justice and closure
“sit down, tell me your bravery
spill it as easy as your skirt,
***** it as quick as the
dirt that’s been thrown on your face
you’re more than just
lemonade on a summer night”
but she swings her hair
and she asks for more
than a mortal man can offer
she wants the world
she wants the money he doesn’t have
and she calls him a thief
and she calls him a liar
and he’s left in a room
some bodies are nothing more than consolations
“I wanted more than a taste of life”
so he searches for her
but he gets lost in yellow taxi cabs
can’t decide whether he
should be in a hospital
or a cemetery
but he goes to a cathedral and
speaks with a priest
he beckons, he screams
he rips his hair off his head
in clumps they fall into his faded jeans
he clamors about the ****** he’s never committed
about how he just wants to be a famous writer
or a composer everyone cries to
he wants god to give him a bruise
he grabs the priests’ collar and kisses him violently
as the priest gasps for air, clutching nothing
all he wanted was a little peace, a little passion
why can’t you understand? None of this is carnal
none of this was made for the intention to be ****
he was sick of feeling ***** without ever being unclean in
the first place
and as he sat on the curb of that church, that solitary step
after being hurled by meaty altar boys
he wanders once more  
his crooked feet knocking posters and people
with closed eyes
until he reads the paper, until the obituary has her name
but it’s not her name he recognized
But her picture, the brutality of the night being exposed in daylight
he sees it everywhere, in the subway’s screens,
in the dry mouths of old men
there’s his ******, the one he’d been looking for all along
not committed by him
but a ****** nonetheless
set a flame for unforgiving service, for
inexplicable excess of satisfaction
set on fire like Salem witches
he wants to hold her hand one more time
it’s not the absence, but the obsolete
revenge, a platter served medium rare
what is vengeance to a convict?
an eye for an eye, a soul for a soul
he can smell the **** in everyone he crosses
he taps his foot in the downstairs
of the neon signs where he smells
nothing but sugar
and as they whisper in the dark
of the man responsible,
of the sentenced ready for his execution
he can almost taste him, running in shadows
and riding in comfort
Until he finds him at the bottom of a hotel
with his tie sloppily tied around his neck
and his eyes bearing the wicked semblance of a vulture
he goes upstairs
all the way to the top floor at the end of the corridor
and as he walks he can feel his steps amounting to something
this is what he was born to do, since birth these
were the footsteps he was told to follow
the death he was meant to document
savagely prepared for him to feast
he taps his shoulder after this ******, this sadist
has opened the door, ajar
clean and astute, clean cut
our inmate throws him into the
blow of hardwood floors, lamps flying
make his eyes go wild
his spit falling into the carnivore’s mouth,
he asks what is solitude to a slaughter
he trembles, he’s alive in this moment
wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit
digs his fingernails into the whites of
this ****** body and he cackles,
he’s a raven, ravenous
he’s a ghost ******* nothing but hot metal
grinding his teeth, blood flows out of sockets
the shrieking echoes, pain splinters the walls
but nothing is heard because no one is there
this is love, this is the romance he
always wanted
gouging the egg yolk out of another man’s eyes
our hero cries a primal cry
and repeats her name over and over again
like a prayer told too late at a sermon
and as he drown this poor man, who is
no vulture anymore, but a wet parakeet
he recites the words he had written into a paper napkin as a child
and if the first apocalypse ends the world in flames
the last Armageddon will end in a deluge
he watches the criminal’s head swells
drunken with happy fervor, he celebrates
by resisting arrest
what is literature to a convict?
his life told in verse
the catharsis this sad existence could never offer him
until it did
and he smiles
a scam to end all scams

Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter

It’s not My will, but Thy will,
Let Me die on the cross for their sins,
And My blood pave way to eternity;
Yet My Soul is sorrowful unto death.
Abba, take away this cup from Me;
Yet if it’s Thy will, and not My will.
Father, Thy promise Thou made with the serpent
That Thou would put enmity ‘twixt him and a woman,
And I should bruise his head;
Nevertheless he should bruise My heel.
For this is Thy eternal promise for man
Who been formed in Thy image;
But been smashed himself with the deceiver.
Flesh is weak and tempting;
Yet the spirit is willing and godly,
For Me too passed thro’ the way of the tempter;
Yet cursed him with Thy Eternal Word.
Unfelt agony runs into My soul,
When I bear the sins of the world,
And who on earth knows it,
Except Thou and Me, Who are ONE?
Do men know Me, Who is in Thee,
And Thou in Me, hath stripped off Glory
And hath become a servant to them,
And made in their likeness with all humbleness
Carrying the cross of shame and abuse?
My sweat is as it were great drops of blood
And Gethesmene I pray turns red.
Who knows but Thou ought ought to reveal
That My blood be shed on the cross
Which is the symbol of the new covenant?
Father, in the beginning I AM,
And all things made by Me and for Me
Who hath come unto earth as the Light,
And I AM Thy Glory, full of grace and Truth.
My Father, here come My betrayer,
For his time hath come to strike Me
As he has to bruise My heel,
And I should then bruise his head,
For it’s Thy Eternal plan of mystery.
Here comes he with the spirit of darkness
Carrying lanterns and torches and weapons
Of unrighteousness and ungodliness.
Father, let Me finish Thy work,
But strengthen Me with Thy Spirit.
Now the betrayer hath sneaked  unto me.
Look, he kisses Me amidst the mob.
Am I his beloved for his kiss?
Yet he is My beloved.
He hath dipped himself in My cup of blood.
It’s Judas kiss bought for thirty silver.
He hath sold his soul to the roaring lion
Which devours the sons of Adam.
I made Judas My apostle;
But he  made himself the liar’s instrument.
The night I am put in chains in the realm of darkness
And I am left alone with none to share mine.
Where are My apostles, My disciples?
I remember Peter’s words
That he said he would go with Me,
And I know the rooster should crow
After his denial of Me thrice to go.
He is a mere man who knows not
That things written be accomplished in Me.
They drag Me, kick Me with their boots of sins,
I am chained by their unrighteousness,
And am whipped by their blasphemy of My Father,
For when I am rejected My Father is rejected
As My Father and I are ONE,
And who hath seen Me hath seen My Father.
My people spit on Me all the way
Where blood from My body sheds.
The thorny whips tear My flesh;
Yet I rejoice in My Father’s will,
But their sins sadden My soul.
I am dragged unto the high priests
Who’ve been awaiting My trial.
Even My disciples have forsaken,
And left Me alone, but My Father in Me.
Am I held ‘midst people of the law
Which was the schoolmaster awhile
Until I finish it with My blood.
Their trial with Me hath begun with bitterness.
And Peter is seen with a mob at the fire.
False witnesses spewed on Me, yet contrary,
Whose arrows stuck on My statement
That I will destroy the temple,
And in three days I will build one.
Behold, And they’re spiritually blind and deaf.
They spit on Me blindfolding My eyes,
And play prophecy of hide and seek.
Each spit on Me is a sin of  theirs
And their hurt in not on My body but soul.
They kick Me with their boots with spikes,
And the unrighteousness of My people bruises.
My soul bleeds not of Me but of their doom.
The father of lies mocks at My Eternal plan.
The liar can bruise but My heel,
And his head is already beneath My heel.
My people strike Me with the palms,
And they slap on  My cheek with prophecy;
Yet I hold peace to defeat the liar.
No man is found to paint the pallor on My face.
I am denied thrice as of My mysterious plan.
I am tried till the sun sinks at the horizon,
And I become the laughing-stock of My people.
I thirst, but not a drop of water I ’m offered,
Where found midst earthly meals the disciples of the liar.
To liars My Truth seems blasphemy
For professing themselves to be wise and godly,
They’ve turned scoffers strolling in lusts.
I’m ‘gainst the mighty liars,
Who’ve forgotten I AM Almighty
Having denied the Power of the Most High
Whose Eternal plan of salvation is for them
Whose trial against Me is vain;
Yet satan in disguise kicks My heel.
My angels were struck in pride in Heaven,
And so were drained off into hell
With their filth and lust in darkness.
They spit on Me Who is the Lamb.
The trial ‘ere Pilate take its roots,
And no roots of earth are of Mine,
For My Father breaks off every branch
That beareth no fruit in Me.
For they wear attires of pomp and pride
With no clothes of righteousness.
Hidden in the mask of flattery
Pilate hath no way to mark justice;
Yet it hath been the Eternal plan of salvation
In Me Who is the Lamb of sacrifice.
Who knows My kingdom is not of this world?
I’ve come down to speak the Truth
That hath made the governor question Me:
‘What is Truth?’
And who believes I AM the Way, the Truth and the Life?
For all have eaten the forbidden fruit
Which hath set free the son of peridition
Who is the father of lies of all ages.
And Pilate sets free a convict as is the custom
Which hath a way in the Passover.
Truth sets free the blessed souls from Death;
But falsehood sets free sinners from Life.
I’m whipped in flesh to bleed;
But I  am whipped in spirit by their sins.
I’ crowned with thorns and twigs:
The metaphors of sins and iniquities.
They throw around Me a purple robe
And cry against Me in sarcasm
That I would live long as the King of the Jews
Whose minds are darkened by worldly wisdom,
For My kingdom is not of this world.
They slap Me on the cheek with arrogance,
I remember Judas’ kiss on the same cheek
Who hath drowned in the lust of silver.
I make neither complaint nor not of repulsiveness,
For it’s My Father’s will to bear the cross.
Back to the porch of the palace
I’m made the season with withering leaves.
Their crown and robe on Mine are their hypocrisy
Who cried against Me riding on a colt.  
Their crown and robe on Mine are their hypocrisy
Who carried against Me riding on a colt,
They threw their cloaks of praise and shouts
Across the way I trotted upon on the colt,
They laid branches cut from trees,
And I knew they were clothed with filthy attires.
Their praises and shouts now turned to curses  and abuses.
I’m now thrown into the hands of disciples of the liar
Who is a like a roaring lion to devour.
Their faulty law plays in their hands
And laughs at My Father’s Rock of Salvation.
But I laugh at the liar’s defeated victory on Me,
For in My resurrection Death hath no victory.
Who knows death took its roots since first transgression
In Eden with the consumption of the Forbidden Fruit;
Yet in Me Life is sealed in Him to Eternity?
I’ve longed for Judas’ godly sorrow like the prodigal son,
But he was bitten by the serpent on the Tree
Where the betrayer tasted the Fruit and died.
He took himself to the tree of death
For the taste of the Fruit turned bitter to him.
Power of this world hath blinded Pilate’s conscience
Whose power hath been predicted over Me
With My self-will hidden in the Most High.
The Eternal plan of salvation hath tied Pilate.
Who washed himself in his self-righteousness
And throws Me out for want of  pomp and pride.
Now I’m in the arms of thorns and bushes
Laden with the cross of the world set out;
Yet My journey thro’ human darkness is for a while,
For the Reward of Eternity is awaiting Me
And the ones who are rooted in Me.
Each whip lashed on Me is the multiple sins of the world,
And the spikes of the whips tear My flesh,
And I bleed with the agony of lost souls,
Whom I’ve made for Glory with My Father.
Behold! A toll strikes this hour
When I hear the hellish roar at a distance,
And I know the traitor hath flung the silver
Which have no price for his destiny.
I shed tears for him but he’s lost
For his death is certain in My Eternal Plan,
And who could change it but Me;
Yet it’s all My plan of mystery in the Father?
They hit Me with a stick o’er the head,
And mock lat Me saying ‘Long live the King of Jews.’
A scepter of stick ****** into My palms,
A game of mockery is played  ‘gainst Me;
Yet I am as innocent as a lamb led to the slaughter,
As writ in the Scriptures with the design of My Father:
I’m oppressed, and afflicted down to death on earth;
Yet I open not My mouth to charge complaints,
I’m brought as a lamb to the slaughter,
And as a sheep before her shearer is dumb.
All the way I’m kicked to fall on the stony path.
Look! My knees bruised and torn for you,
Still are there moments of repentance from hypocrisy.
**! Here am I fallen on the thorny twigs.
Behold! My clothes are torn with blood flowing out.
They tilt Me with their pompous boots.
I try to lift Myself but laden with the cross.
Pity of sacrcasm plays in their hearts
And in turn a man from Cyrene is laid with the cross.
I carry the sins of the world for crucifixion;
But he’s made to carry the wooden cross behind Me.
Is it My Word that says unto you:
‘Take up your cross everyday and follow Me?’
Nay, but to forsake the world of sins
Be My doctrine with the love of My Father.
You cannot carry the cross I bear;
Yet you can carry yours beside Me.
Shouts of abuses thunder into My heart
Amidst the cry of lamentation across the way.
They hook Me up with scornful epithets
And the liar of the world bruised My heel;
Yet I walk the path of obedience to physical death
That My death on the cross shows Way to Eternity.
I hear the cry of My people,
Why do they cry with wailing?
Do they mourn over My trial on earth
Or o’er their sinful attires.?
Who knows, but I know?
They shed tears of emotions,
And who knows their sins crucify Me?
Behold! I hear the Nightingale’s song ‘cross the stormy breeze.
Is it the song of melody unto My people
For they murmur Nature too mocks at My trial?
But I know My creations are under My power.
They’ve painted the day’s sky with glooms
As their pilgrimage on earth smeared with sins.
Back on Me the cross is ****** and I’m knocked down,
And My face dashes ‘gainst rocks on the way.
The spiky rocks tear My skin to bleed,
I bleed and bleed till the last drop.
Little children kiss My bleeding cheeks
And they take the mark of My sacrifice.
The sun soars higher and higher
And each phase of My journey is of My Father’s plan.
I scale ‘gainst the steep hillock with lashes on My back.
The fiendish serpent laughs at Me,
And strolls with the exotic steps drowned in hellish dirt.
And I know he bruises MY HEEL:
But he ‘knows’ not I’ll bruise his head.
My disciples walk apart with arms tied,
For none can break the design of My Father.
The sun strikes the altitude and I reach the slaughter.
They drag Me unto the ‘place of the skull’.
Who’ve thought I would sleep ‘neath the grave
Which hath no future for death is once for all.
Their conscience is buried in darkness by the liar,
Like dried-up springs and clouds blown along by a storm,
Their thoughts and deeds lie in vain of glory,
All bundled in filthy rags of lusts,
Whose promise of freedom is spoken by the father of this world,
The mighty trap hidden with baits of freedom of slavery.
Who knows but My Father of My destruction of the Temple;
Yet be rebuilt in three days in glory?
Behold! They strip off My clothes to naked.
The serpent sneaks onto the Forbidden Tree
With a cynical comedy of errors;
Yet it bruises My heel with its bitten fang.
My Father drove out Adam and Eve from Eden
Who had turned unholy committed themselves to the liar.
Now the liar, he thinks, drives Me out into the grave.
But I will destroy him with My dazzling presence.
My garments  they part and share ‘mongst themselves,
And My robe made of single piece of woven cloth
With no seam found in it, thrown at dice.
Do they know it’s of the Scriptures foretold?
They lay Me on the cross down on the earth.
I recall My infancy couched on the manger:
How I was cared and nurtured by My human parents.
I was in the safe arms from bitter cold;
But now I lie sans comfort and in blood.
My arms are stretched across to be nailed,
Lost of strength My legs are pulled along.
My people watch the gory sight of crucifixion.
They nail My palms and feet ruthlessly.
How I healed My people from diseases
How I fed My people from starvation!
How I walked to listen to My people’s sorrows!
But they watch Me now lying on the cross.
Do they know of My death on the cross?
The nails are pierced deep into veins and nerves,
Streams of blood flow down unto My people;
But they kick My blood splashed ‘cross My face.
Unfelt agony and untold miseries crushed My spirit,
For they repent not of their sins but die
Forsaking My Father’s promise unto those who believe Me.
When nails are pierced Mine My Father strengthens Me.
I bear the pain for the promise of My Father.
They raise Me nailed on the cross.
Curses and abuses lashed on Me,
And they shout they’ve cut the root of the tree.
Alas! They do not know what  they do;
Yet My Eternal Plan of  these shall happen.  
I look at My disciples at the Cross
Whose darkened hearts I perceive.
Full of heaviness with a doubting hope
Of what will happen to Me and them.
They’re petals turned pale in the evening,
They’re the garden of Fall with no fruits bearing,
Like distant stars with faded light they look
My people fling upon Me mockery:
‘He saved others; let Him save Himself
Who claimed the Son of God!’
Not to save Myself is My advent to the world;
But it’s My Father's Eternal Design in Me
That salvation is for mankind in My Father’s likeness.
It’s written above My head of the Kingship:
‘This is the King of the Jews’
Who know not of My Eternal Kingship,
Not of this world, but of the Heaven.
Behold! The criminal on My left hurls at Me:
‘Are You the Anointed One?  Save Thyself and us!
Is he the son of Cain who turned a fugitive?
Is it not like “am I my brother’s keeper?
The convict on My right is another prodigal son
Whose sorrow of his filthy rags turns his blessed.
‘Lord! Remember me in Your Kingdom!’
My promise unto him hath crowned his a hope of glory:
‘This day shall you be with Me in Paradise.’
It is the prime of the day with beams of fire splashed across:
The sun is in its meridian lashing unforgiving rays.
Behold! The sun is darkened by the clouds of glooms,
It’s day but turns night as a premonition
What happens to the creation in My Day in Glory.
The temple of the city trembles at My Word’
And the curtain is torn in the middle,
Yea, Moses’ law turns unto rags with no price,
For I make the New and Eternal Law of love in Me.
Nightly day survives until My Last Cry’
Troubled with the heaviness of My people’s sins:
‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?
‘Yet it’s finished. Thy work on earth is done,
Father, here I commend My spirit unto Thee’.

Sitting here in class I am today, minding my business as they would say. I’m listening to the teacher teach but hearing only things left beyond my reach. Another whole day in this **** school so I can come out each night 'more-of-a-fool,' and would it behoove them all to know, I ain’t no dummy, no 'coffee-Joe'?

  …but then I’d have to get the chance, the opportunity provided to advance and the equal treatment they all receive that somehow has been lost on me. Why do I even come here? Why does my Mom insist on this? They don’t call on me, care about me, acknowledge me, it’s ridiculous. At lunch each day I gotta use my fists and even my own kind acts wicked, cause for the rest of them fighting is all that exists.

  Exists; having objective reality or being.

  I exist alright; exist if you call this a life, defined by ******, **** and monkey, or related to some stupid-actin’ ****** or some dumb brawler or that dude good at running but never ever seen as intelligent and cunning. The girls ignore me, teachers too, white guys hate me, what did I do? What did I ever do to them? I’m just like you, I just want some friends, want the chance in life to succeed, man shut up about being freed that **** happened a hundred and fifty ******* years ago, I’m just as sick of hearing about it as you are 'Bro.'

  They say I have rights, they say that it’s fair, they say there’s a chance for me everywhere, but everywhere I look that’s not what I see, I’m put-down and degraded cons-tant-ly, told that I should join the team, or passed over in conversations about some thing. Forced to be friends with thugs that hate but to them at least I can relate, for just like me they was excluded or marginalized when told that they are deluded; they’ll never make it anyway, never achieve their dreams, never have their say so why even bother when no one cares how you feel, when your dreams in life won’t ever be real, when you end up in the streets and all you got left is to steal, when its still,

“Go back to Africa ******!”

...they say with zeal and the vitriol an violence comport surreal, Helen didn’t hold this secret to reveal nor does rap, truthfully, with these problems deal? Cocooned by stares and ****-sure glares, because your own sports brothers hate your *** and make you just wanna ditch that class, so here I ended up on the streets, hangin' round on my crew’s beats, acting tough, street-cred and clout and there your 'momma-an-sister' out n’ about, while here I am a fresh drop-out and can you guess what?

Here we come to take her purse, I clock your mom’s mouth and shove down your sister but ***** you boy I could’ve done much worse, she could’ve lost her life and come home in a hearse!

  Is this the ****** ya’ll wanted to see? All filled up inside with hatred, cause I was told that I would never make it, from day one got no attention, spent half of high school in afternoon detention, training me for my future as a prison convict yet another sign our society is depraved and sick. Given no chance or help or just some praise, no moments to shine and no Happy Days, he’s just a gang-banger, a **** they say? My actions may be worse than your words assail, and well, that may be me and I may be in jail but here’s something from my Grand Momma, a little encouragement goes a long way to change this drama...

You see me on the street you better ******* run cause you already know what’s in my jacket son and my hoodie will be up so you can’t see my face since I already know what you think of my race.

Straight out of prison
Wondering what I've been missing
Right out of the gates I stuck out my thumb

A van load of hippies
All from Mississippi
Stoped and asked, hey dude...what's going on

I'm here for adventure
Well hop in then Mister
Adventure is what we're all about

Now where we're all going
There's no way of knowing
A van of hippies and parolee freshly let out

We ended up in Disney
Me and all of the hippies
Where we had caboodles of fun

We met Mickey and he saw it
When I lifted his wallet
Now we're in the Magic Kingdom all on the run

We split in different directions
To throw off detection
It's A Small World is where I made my mistake

With that song stuck in my head
It's a fate worse than death
Prison now sounds like a wonderful place

We rendezvoused in
The Pirate's Of The Caribbean
Where soon after, in came the law

We all jumped from our boats
Splashing around in the moat
And had ourselves a good old fashioned pirate brawl

We soon made our escape
Out of exit door 88
Finding ourselves in Frontier Land at night

Where in the middle of the street
Were Mickey, Donald, and Goofy
All with guns strapped to their sides

We ran into a shop
And bought guns on the spot
All with Mickey's money...he's a mouse of a man

Mickey squeeks we're going to ruff you up
As Goofy holds up the cuffs
And Donald says something we can't understand

We had a shoot out
With cap guns no doubt
After all Disney runs a safe place

Ran out of caps in our guns
Which stopped our lives on the run
The wrath of Mickey we all now would face

After justice's hammer
I'm now back in the slammer
This time I made my own prison bed

Now I cry every day
What more can I say
With It's A Small World still stuck in my head

you stolen pink, arson rose
you angry yellow
you know you the new black?
you inmate slap
color of construction
oh range
convict cage or bruised sunset
you peel or rind
oh range
oh range
(oh aren't you glad I didn't say orange?)
you uniform agent
you coral fire burnt
aren't you glad i didn't say orange?

Bittersweet, get me going.
                     hold your breath over my neck,
      
                             it really

         lets me go,

                         twists my tongue.
Talk to me
                  like an angel
but,
                                
                         touch me                
like a convict.
 
                        disrespect me,

              neglect me,
abuse me,

but,
              with a voice I can't refuse.

Bittersweet, like a rose infused.


Bittersweet, keep me going.

        my heart
flutters and flails when I hear you in my ear.
      
      Whisper me *******

but,                
                       ***** me

like a ******.

                    ****** me,

             reduce me,
fool me, 
            but  Bittersweet,                      
        ­            make me feel *****.
Like you're in school
         and I am turning thirty.

silence
sadness
regret
remorse
fortitude
and defiance
permeate
the
bricks
made
by
convicts
for this
old church
so far far
away
from
english
shores
and on
the pews
so narrowly
wrought
they
listened
to the
chaplain
say
heaven
was the
place to
seek
repentence
was the
key....
and on
the cobbled
floor
they
scratched
their marks
before
they
made
their way
back to
the convict
barracks
the hell
of each
and every
day....

Mean while the heinous and despiteful act
Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how
He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve,
Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit,
Was known in Heaven; for what can ’scape the eye
Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart
Omniscient? who, in all things wise and just,
Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind
Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed,
Complete to have discovered and repulsed
Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered,
The high injunction, not to taste that fruit,
Whoever tempted; which they not obeying,
(Incurred what could they less?) the penalty;
And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste
The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad,
For Man; for of his state by this they knew,
Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen
Entrance unseen.  Soon as the unwelcome news
From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased
All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare
That time celestial visages, yet, mixed
With pity, violated not their bliss.
About the new-arrived, in multitudes
The ethereal people ran, to hear and know
How all befel:  They towards the throne supreme,
Accountable, made haste, to make appear,
With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance
And easily approved; when the Most High
Eternal Father, from his secret cloud,
Amidst in thunder uttered thus his voice.
Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned
From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed,
Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth,
Which your sincerest care could not prevent;
Foretold so lately what would come to pass,
When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
I told ye then he should prevail, and speed
On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,
And flattered out of all, believing lies
Against his Maker; no decree of mine
Concurring to necessitate his fall,
Or touch with lightest moment of impulse
His free will, to her own inclining left
In even scale.  But fallen he is; and now
What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass
On his transgression,—death denounced that day?
Which he presumes already vain and void,
Because not yet inflicted, as he feared,
By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find
Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end.
Justice shall not return as bounty scorned.
But whom send I to judge them? whom but thee,
Vicegerent Son?  To thee I have transferred
All judgement, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell.
Easy it may be seen that I intend
Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee
Man’s friend, his Mediator, his designed
Both ransom and Redeemer voluntary,
And destined Man himself to judge Man fallen.
So spake the Father; and, unfolding bright
Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son
Blazed forth unclouded Deity: He full
Resplendent all his Father manifest
Expressed, and thus divinely answered mild.
Father Eternal, thine is to decree;
Mine, both in Heaven and Earth, to do thy will
Supreme; that thou in me, thy Son beloved,
Mayest ever rest well pleased.  I go to judge
On earth these thy transgressours; but thou knowest,
Whoever judged, the worst on me must light,
When time shall be; for so I undertook
Before thee; and, not repenting, this obtain
Of right, that I may mitigate their doom
On me derived; yet I shall temper so
Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most
Them fully satisfied, and thee appease.
Attendance none shall need, nor train, where none
Are to behold the judgement, but the judged,
Those two; the third best absent is condemned,
Convict by flight, and rebel to all law:
Conviction to the serpent none belongs.
Thus saying, from his radiant seat he rose
Of high collateral glory: Him Thrones, and Powers,
Princedoms, and Dominations ministrant,
Accompanied to Heaven-gate; from whence
Eden, and all the coast, in prospect lay.
Down he descended straight; the speed of Gods
Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
Now was the sun in western cadence low
From noon, and gentle airs, due at their hour,
To fan the earth now waked, and usher in
The evening cool; when he, from wrath more cool,
Came the mild Judge, and Intercessour both,
To sentence Man:  The voice of God they heard
Now walking in the garden, by soft winds
Brought to their ears, while day declined; they heard,
And from his presence hid themselves among
The thickest trees, both man and wife; till God,
Approaching, thus to Adam called aloud.
Where art thou, Adam, wont with joy to meet
My coming seen far off?  I miss thee here,
Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude,
Where obvious duty ere while appeared unsought:
Or come I less conspicuous, or what change
Absents thee, or what chance detains?—Come forth!
He came; and with him Eve, more loth, though first
To offend; discountenanced both, and discomposed;
Love was not in their looks, either to God,
Or to each other; but apparent guilt,
And shame, and perturbation, and despair,
Anger, and obstinacy, and hate, and guile.
Whence Adam, faltering long, thus answered brief.
I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice
Afraid, being naked, hid myself.  To whom
The gracious Judge without revile replied.
My voice thou oft hast heard, and hast not feared,
But still rejoiced; how is it now become
So dreadful to thee?  That thou art naked, who
Hath told thee?  Hast thou eaten of the tree,
Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat?
To whom thus Adam sore beset replied.
O Heaven! in evil strait this day I stand
Before my Judge; either to undergo
Myself the total crime, or to accuse
My other self, the partner of my life;
Whose failing, while her faith to me remains,
I should conceal, and not expose to blame
By my complaint: but strict necessity
Subdues me, and calamitous constraint;
Lest on my head both sin and punishment,
However insupportable, be all
Devolved; though should I hold my peace, yet thou
Wouldst easily detect what I conceal.—
This Woman, whom thou madest to be my help,
And gavest me as thy perfect gift, so good,
So fit, so acceptable, so divine,
That from her hand I could suspect no ill,
And what she did, whatever in itself,
Her doing seemed to justify the deed;
She gave me of the tree, and I did eat.
To whom the Sovran Presence thus replied.
Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey
Before his voice? or was she made thy guide,
Superiour, or but equal, that to her
Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place
Wherein God set thee above her made of thee,
And for thee, whose perfection far excelled
Hers in all real dignity?  Adorned
She was indeed, and lovely, to attract
Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts
Were such, as under government well seemed;
Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part
And person, hadst thou known thyself aright.
So having said, he thus to Eve in few.
Say, Woman, what is this which thou hast done?
To whom sad Eve, with shame nigh overwhelmed,
Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge
Bold or loquacious, thus abashed replied.
The Serpent me beguiled, and I did eat.
Which when the Lord God heard, without delay
To judgement he proceeded on the accused
Serpent, though brute; unable to transfer
The guilt on him, who made him instrument
Of mischief, and polluted from the end
Of his creation; justly then accursed,
As vitiated in nature:  More to know
Concerned not Man, (since he no further knew)
Nor altered his offence; yet God at last
To Satan first in sin his doom applied,
Though in mysterious terms, judged as then best:
And on the Serpent thus his curse let fall.
Because thou hast done this, thou art accursed
Above all cattle, each beast of the field;
Upon thy belly groveling thou shalt go,
And dust shalt eat all the days of thy life.
Between thee and the woman I will put
Enmity, and between thine and her seed;
Her seed shall bruise thy head, thou bruise his heel.
So spake this oracle, then verified
When Jesus, Son of Mary, second Eve,
Saw Satan fall, like lightning, down from Heaven,
Prince of the air; then, rising from his grave
Spoiled Principalities and Powers, triumphed
In open show; and, with ascension bright,
Captivity led captive through the air,
The realm itself of Satan, long usurped;
Whom he shall tread at last under our feet;
Even he, who now foretold his fatal bruise;
And to the Woman thus his sentence turned.
Thy sorrow I will greatly multiply
By thy conception; children thou shalt bring
In sorrow forth; and to thy husband’s will
Thine shall submit; he over thee shall rule.
On Adam last thus judgement he pronounced.
Because thou hast hearkened to the voice of thy wife,
And eaten of the tree, concerning which
I charged thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat thereof:
Cursed is the ground for thy sake; thou in sorrow
Shalt eat thereof, all the days of thy life;
Thorns also and thistles it shall bring thee forth
Unbid; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field;
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,
Till thou return unto the ground; for thou
Out of the ground wast taken, know thy birth,
For dust thou art, and shalt to dust return.
So judged he Man, both Judge and Saviour sent;
And the instant stroke of death, denounced that day,
Removed far off; then, pitying how they stood
Before him naked to the air, that now
Must suffer change, disdained not to begin
Thenceforth the form of servant to assume;
As when he washed his servants feet; so now,
As father of his family, he clad
Their nakedness with skins of beasts, or slain,
Or as the snake with youthful coat repaid;
And thought not much to clothe his enemies;
Nor he their outward only with the skins
Of beasts, but inward nakedness, much more.
Opprobrious, with his robe of righteousness,
Arraying, covered from his Father’s sight.
To him with swift ascent he up returned,
Into his blissful ***** reassumed
In glory, as of old; to him appeased
All, though all-knowing, what had passed with Man
Recounted, mixing intercession sweet.
Mean while, ere thus was sinned and judged on Earth,
Within the gates of Hell sat Sin and Death,
In counterview within the gates, that now
Stood open wide, belching outrageous flame
Far into Chaos, since the Fiend passed through,
Sin opening; who thus now to Death began.
O Son, why sit we here each other viewing
Idly, while Satan, our great author, thrives
In other worlds, and happier seat provides
For us, his offspring dear?  It cannot be
But that success attends him; if mishap,
Ere this he had returned, with fury driven
By his avengers; since no place like this
Can fit his punishment, or their revenge.
Methinks I feel new strength within me rise,
Wings growing, and dominion given me large
Beyond this deep; whatever draws me on,
Or sympathy, or some connatural force,
Powerful at greatest distance to unite,
With secret amity, things of like kind,
By secretest conveyance.  Thou, my shade
Inseparable, must with me along;
For Death from Sin no power can separate.
But, lest the difficulty of passing back
Stay his return perhaps over this gulf
Impassable, impervious; let us try
Adventurous work, yet to thy power and mine
Not unagreeable, to found a path
Over this main from Hell to that new world,
Where Satan now prevails; a monument
Of merit high to all the infernal host,
Easing their passage hence, for *******,
Or transmigration, as their lot shall lead.
Nor can I miss the way, so strongly drawn
By this new-felt attraction and instinct.
Whom thus the meager Shadow answered soon.
Go, whither Fate, and inclination strong,
Leads thee; I shall not lag behind, nor err
The way, thou leading; such a scent I draw
Of carnage, prey innumerable, and taste
The savour of death from all things there that live:
Nor shall I to the work thou enterprisest
Be wanting, but afford thee equal aid.
So saying, with delight he snuffed the smell
Of mortal change on earth.  As when a flock
Of ravenous fowl, though many a league remote,
Against the day of battle, to a field,
Where armies lie encamped, come flying, lured
With scent of living carcasses designed
For death, the following day, in ****** fight:
So scented the grim Feature, and upturned
His nostril wide into the murky air;
Sagacious of his quarry from so far.
Then both from out Hell-gates, into the waste
Wide anarchy of Chaos, damp and dark,
Flew diverse; and with power (their power was great)
Hovering upon the waters, what they met
Solid or slimy, as in raging sea
Tost up and down, together crouded drove,
From each side shoaling towards the mouth of Hell;
As when two polar winds, blowing adverse
Upon the Cronian sea, together drive
Mountains of ice, that stop the imagined way
Beyond Petsora eastward, to the rich
Cathaian coast.  The aggregated soil
Death with his mace petrifick, cold and dry,
As with a trident, smote; and fixed as firm
As Delos, floating once; the rest his look
Bound with Gorgonian rigour not to move;
And with Asphaltick slime, broad as the gate,
Deep to the roots of Hell the gathered beach
They fastened, and the mole immense wrought on
Over the foaming deep high-arched, a bridge
Of length prodigious, joining to the wall
Immoveable of this now fenceless world,
Forfeit to Death; from hence a passage broad,
Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to Hell.
So, if great things to small may be compared,
Xerxes, the liberty of Greece to yoke,
From Susa, his Memnonian palace high,
Came to the sea: and, over Hellespont
Bridging his way, Europe with Asia joined,
And scourged with many a stroke the indignant waves.
Now had they brought the work by wonderous art
Pontifical, a ridge of pendant rock,
Over the vexed abyss, following the track
Of Satan to the self-same place where he
First lighted from his wing, and landed safe
From out of Chaos, to the outside bare
Of this round world:  With pins of adamant
And chains they made all fast, too fast they made
And durable!  And now in little space
The confines met of empyrean Heaven,
And of this World; and, on the left hand, Hell
With long reach interposed; three several ways
In sight, to each of these three places led.
And now their way to Earth they had descried,
To Paradise first tending; when, behold!
Satan, in likeness of an Angel bright,
Betwixt the Centaur and the Scorpion steering
His zenith, while the sun in Aries rose:
Disguised he came; but those his children dear
Their parent soon discerned, though in disguise.
He, after Eve seduced, unminded slunk
Into the wood fast by; and, changing shape,
To observe the sequel, saw his guileful act
By Eve, though all unweeting, seconded
Upon her husband; saw their shame that sought
Vain covertures; but when he saw descend
The Son of God to judge them, terrified
He fled; not hoping to escape, but shun
The present; fearing, guilty, what his wrath
Might suddenly inflict; that past, returned
By night, and listening where the hapless pair
Sat in their sad discourse, and various plaint,
Thence gathered his own doom; which understood
Not instant, but of future time, with joy
And tidings fraught, to Hell he now returned;
And at the brink of Chaos, near the foot
Of this new wonderous pontifice, unhoped
Met, who to meet him came, his offspring dear.
Great joy was at their meeting, and at sight
Of that stupendious bridge his joy encreased.
Long he admiring stood, till Sin, his fair
Enchanting daughter, thus the silence broke.
O Parent, these are thy magnifick deeds,
Thy trophies! which thou viewest as not thine own;
Thou art their author, and prime architect:
For I no sooner in my heart divined,
My heart, which by a secret harmony
Still moves with thine, joined in connexion sweet,
That thou on earth hadst prospered, which thy looks
Now also evidence, but straight I felt,
Though distant from thee worlds between, yet felt,
That I must after thee, with this thy son;
Such fatal consequence unites us three!
Hell could no longer hold us in our bounds,
Nor this unvoyageable gulf obscure
Detain from following thy illustrious track.
Thou hast achieved our liberty, confined
Withi