"apostasies" poems
Part I: The Elegy of the ******
O we all hail from the pits of ashes, coals, and tar
And crawled out from the crater, of that northern cold star
All ye heart’s wish is to stand in the pope’s grand pulpit
All souls unknowingly swindled, ye vainly submit!
Then, if apes be to humans and humans be to gods;
Unto stones we spit out our apostasies and sobs
We strip our skins to this detestable madness,
From darkness once lurked, we go back with ill fondness
So we adorn ourselves with profane golden idols
On our hands, feet, and neck; to cover our vile souls
And ye stab thine own neighbor, to fulfill thine own ploys
Thou hath betrayed thyself, for that thirty silver coins
As a putrefied heart turn to a hardened stone,
So it breaks into dust, as gusts of shame strews it alone
Woe to me! How do I redeem my lost poor soul?
If the wroth Maker hath already taken my toll
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
in trying to be what to them she represents, she holds a pair of scissors while looking for her hair. she is my mother and then she is my mother again in a car with my mother and my son. the car in front of us goes left of center and said son speaks on the beating he’s getting from the driver of the drifting car. I’m worried at the sanity of his intelligence but am also driving. mother is taking his statement with lipstick and a wet notepad. below me, a whole populace splits on the given permanence of surreal or ethereal when both are equally inexact. if god needs to beat one body, I’d rather he be this down-to-earth not to use that of the son in my car. I can’t lengthen my life with all the speaking and the writing and mother can taste it. her silence introduces a third car as caveat and in it the belief I’m shortened by.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
I cut off two fingers from the hand of the poet who can’t stop from writing the hymns of her.
I put them in my ears so I could escape the redundant song
About the girl with the face that inspired the seas and it’s depths
And the sun
And the moon
And the stars
And a spirit that defeated them all
I would’ve used two of my own, but I need all 10 to compose this sacrilegious psalm
Because I value Beauty not
Although I guess it’s only me
They’ll adorn your scars as long as they don’t bleed
and applaud your broken bones as long as they aren’t visible through busted seams
And they live to hear her story
No matter how old or recent
But If you look like the hell you’ve gone through they’d rather you just
Didn’t.
Or perhaps you prefer that narrative
of hate
And slaughter
And lust
But no matter how many time it’s spun
I still can’t seem to trust
The girl with the mind that dared to lock eyes with the void and it’s breadth
And time
And space
And death
And a soul that embraced them all
She’s prayed for the devil one too many times and that’s probably why he won’t leave her alone
Cause she’ll tell you her name is fearless
And that she’s mystical and cold
But really she’s Banality
And her lionhearted stories
Old
I suppose it’s not her fault
Nor is it Beauty’s either
That their tales are all derivative
And clichéd, their Author’s leisure
They’re shrines to archetypal aspiration
Overwatered brain garden
Concept vegetation
So I pulled up Beauty’s roots
And those of Banality too
And reveled in their surprise as a **** like me ripped them from the view.
And I plant them here with me
amongst the blooming Apostasies
And how willingly they drink
My Eucharist of impiety
And now I sit with open veins
And written in my blood this
Antiphon remains
But since we’re all just echoes in the void
I’ll know you’re lying if you say
you didn’t lick your fingers anyway
when turning the pages of this introit
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC