Too many birds call in the morning.
Refuse to know their name
and then, nothing matters.

A rockslide slides up
a mountain and
down your throat-

can't breathe
when the airs so thin
you'd think the trees stopped giving oxygen

Aspens stand
and spit out
too tall for their kind.

i.

More than ever
This hour;
Now, mine God
Mine Christ, needeth me.

ii.

More than ever
This time;
I must overcometh Satan
And release the scripture's sign's.

iii.

More than ever
These last day's;
I must telleth other's
Of the world's end, and the hope to makest thou amazed.

iv.

More than ever
Better now, then never;
I shalt bloweth the shofar
Beneath hell, above the star's.

v.

More than ever
This is mine letter;
For thou to awakest
And findeth Christ's salvation, by which thou canst enter.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prohetic poetry

Betwixt the Alloquy
Of me and Reyna Jane's tongue's;
Spilleth out the astrology, aloft the moon and the sun.

God shalt unite us
In the new life;
Of the next.

Thither the peace coming
The fountain's shalt be running;
With Christ's aura of his mightiness.

The world's now faltering
Forward star's to hit this dune;
Annular mushroom cloud's, as well from man's nuclear doom.

As china faileth, and the State's of America fumble
I'm ready to go, so queen do knoweth;
The stock's art about to jumble.

Look high, mine love
To ourn creator above;
Trumpet's art about to be blown.

The celestial's art heavy
Ourn universal levee;
Is broken, so clingeth to me mine dove.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/ prophetic poetry

Day debt
night wept
sleep crept
Attachment.
                       Where is my attachment?
                                evening out of balance
                                        The line of my life has broken
                                                  off into separate identities
Flower feather
Hollow weather
Moonlight Canyon
                                      Skylight childhood nostalgia
                                      Stolen star
Battered cheekbones
Of weary workers keeping to
The hornet's nest
                      Reality a constant terror
                     Of city structures                         swallowing
                                                      ­                             them whole.
Blackbird rests
on an Autumn branch of
hidden meadow
checking its wristwatch obsessively for the
             Hydrogen Volcano
                INEVITABLE.
                                         Termite Corporations
                                          Cavernous Hilltops
                                        All that green is gold
(A straw man in Byzantine robes approaches
            the frosty Manhattan
    to become a relic in it's Libraries)
                         People fall in Love with coincidence,
                 (The illusion of order beyond our field or reach)
        All that love is kept in a
                    Conservatory somewhere...
                          Glossy stems connected to palpitating blossoms.

Our tired eyes are focused to the asphalt confluence
whether fever or handhold.

               Hymns ring throughout the forests of
                                                   Vancouver Island
               Dreamers hang from the Niagara Trestle caught in                
                                                   overwhelming sunlight
                                                        ­ Doused in spirit.

Holy Melancholic September
Sweeps away the dusty Summer,
                                                        e­verything seems renewed
                                                        I­n the rain..

i can make one bottle of beer last hours
From cold to lukewarm
My *** settling into a state of what I call
Perma buzzed
Wussy sip after wussy sip
Perplexed looks and slights from friends
It serves me right to drink so slow,
Evading the glass bottle bottom but
I guess I want to be able to hold onto something so much,
It warms up to me and serves me well.

~

Right now, I want to be buried in a house of lavenders.

what a strange quiet house I'm in
Where i can't even hear myself think
Bottle after bottle and the silence ensues
I am alone here, and I will be alone here
For as long as the vacancy in my chest
And the absence of my mind
continues

~
I want a house overrun with lavenders for my children to play with.

August is the twilight of summertime
the nagging sensation of things coming to a close
tugs from the collar of your shirt, downwards
until it lifts itself up with your shoulders
wrapping its arms around your neck

this house is making me sicker than any virus could.

Did he want me or the thread around my fingers?
abandoned, and I let it twist around my throat,
born again from the ashes and sand
a goddess, alone

Does this vine wreathed god want me
or is he driven manic with lust when he sees
the way I tear the flesh of survival between my teeth,
akin to the myths of him?

I can taste wine on the roof of my mouth
and religious ecstasy in my lungs,
but I can feel turns and terrors of my own in my bones
and a beast encased in my ribs.