At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first ****

just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo

off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,

grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.

Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,

where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare

with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.

Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,

the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;

deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town.  A rooster gloats

over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,

over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,

making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:

glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,

each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"

Each screaming
"Get up!  Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?

You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled

"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,

cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that ****** beauty of iridescence

Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,

and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.

And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;

and what he sung
no matter.  He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung

with his dead wives
with open, ****** eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.


St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;

of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."

Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:

Christ stands amazed,
Peter, ******* raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.

But in between
a little **** is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,

explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;

yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.

Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits.  Poor Peter, heart-sick,

still cannot guess
those ****-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,

a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran

there would always be
a bronze **** on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see

that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince

all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.

In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding

from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?

gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,

the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The ***** are now almost inaudible.

The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.

What is this?
The musician invasion?
I wonder as you ramble
On and on
Both tearing yourself down
And pulling yourself up.
I just need to fix up
Your ****** resume
So you can get a job.
A haircut wouldn't be bad either.

We go through all your options
I refer to my brother in law.
Once a hungry musician like you.
"You know he plays for Angels of Petrus"
Your eyes jump out of their sockets.
"...and he told me that most of them work remotely, like the guys from Korpus"
There's admiration in your eyes.

And yet after I ditched you
And got on the bus
30minutes later
I see a dude wearing a shirt
That spells out the name
Of your band.
I roll my eyes a chuckle.
Here you sit in awe of me
Knowing the guys
Who's music you admire.
Yet have no clue who you are to your fans.
Humility has it's limits.

Ubi Petrus

                                          For Inky and Jason


                                      “Ubi Petrus, ibi Ecclesia”

                                        - St. Ambrose of Milan


Where Peter was, there also was the Tomb --
Blood-sodden dreams cold-rotting in old sin,
The Chalice left unwashed, the Upper Room
A three-days’ grave for hope-forsaken men.

Where Peter is, there also should we be,
Poor pilgrims, his, a-kneel before the Throne
Of Eosian Christendom, and none but he
Is called to lead the Church to eternal Dawn.

Where Peter then will be, there is the Faith,
Transubstantiation, whipped blood, ripped flesh
A solid reality, not a wraith
Of shop-soiled heresies labeled as fresh.

Where Peter is, O Lord, there let us pray,
Poor battered wanderers along Your way.

My lord, standing fast,
with flourishing orchids private.
Love, faded spectral being, leave your grave of satin

for the warm blood of the sleeping at last.

Night-walking and undead,
skin, firm as steel.

When you first come to this place, you would probably forget where you are heading. Golden Gates, clear blue sky, laughter. Birds flying way up high. A kind man greets you with a smile. His bright blue eyes sparkle a bit and he tells you, you can enter. You step through the gates and  there's an Angel waiting for you. The experience and sheer aura of this Angel makes you slightly bow down you head as you witness purity itself. Only then can you imagine what it must be like to meet Him. Because no matter how you look at it there can't be someone more pure than Him. He greets you with a warm smile. His eyes shed a faint pure light. His halo made of white pure light, a beacon you now know was there when it was dark. Mezmerized, almost smitten you just stand there, realising how small you are. The Angel calls you by a name you don't recognise and he noticed it. The fear you feel of telling him what your real name is, is almost to great to bear. To stand up against such a higher existence, a being probably thousands of years old and still so young. When you're about to stand up for yourself, taken a moment to gather the courage, he apologises and says that he calls you by your Soulname. He explains that you lived nearly as long as he did and that every soul here has a name of it's own. He also says that it's time to follow him. He guides you to a palace and after a while you enter a room. Inside this room there's a halo shining a bright white light. It draws you in, you don't notice the Angel closing the door behind you. The White light goes out and the first thing you see is the eyes of your new mother.

When you first come to this place you would probably forget where you are heading. At least for some, there's only one place for me to go. Upon witnessing the Golden gates I look both left and right and see the Golden fence stretch infinitely. I look up and see the birds flying, I let my eyes adjust at the distance for a moment. The birds are trying to fly further up, but they can't. Open Air prison is what comes to mind. I walk towards the gates and see Petrus, he greets me. Behind his blue eyes there's a sparkle of madness. He tells me to go on through as I walk past him an Angel greets me. Welcomes me home and calls me Axle. Images flash by of my hundreds of previous lives. Lives where I always stood up for people, always helped them and loved them. I look back at the Angel and greet him. 'It's been a long time Earos'. He tells me to follow him and he guides me to the palace. After walking for a while I enter a room. Inside of this room is a halo shining a pure white light. It instantly moves above my head and with it i've lost my individual way of thinking.

*When you first come to this place you probably forget where you are heading. At least most people would. But not me, no Sir, there's only one place for me to go. As I look at the Golden Gates I'm kind of confused, inside the golden bars I see flames being contained inside them. I look up and see birds flying. I try and look better and I see them flying further upwards. Why would they do that? The birds suddenly dive and increase their speed to the point where they burn to ashes. Suicide? I walk to the gates and see Petrus. He greets me with a grin and whispers 'welcome home brother'. I ignore him and proceed past the gates. An Angel greets me, his eyes pure white. But I can still smell the fear mixed with a bit of sweat. Right before he tries to call my Name I immediatly regain the memories of my past ten lives. Lives filled with ******, madness, abuse,fraud,greed,envy and every other sin and crime I commited. Right before he calls me my name I scream SILENCE! Don't you dare speak my name Axle! I look him right in his eyes, he's silent. Now, take me home. When we enter the palace gates I start to feel strange. Uncomfortable, itchy and sweaty. I enter a room, inside it there's a Halo shining pure white light. When it moves over my head I grab it and smash it on the floor. The lights go out, pure darkness envelops me. The first thing I see is a throne with a man sitting on it. I look around and all I see is wasteland burning, broken buildings, cruficixes burning. The man welcomes me leans forward and says the following: Zacharias or Zac, good that you're here. I've been waiting for ten years to meet you, to meet the Left hand of God. With these words spoken the rest of my memories unlock, a time of where I was an Angel. Suddenly forced back into the world of living only to commit sin and ******. I'm shocked and take a step back. Lucifer says he has an explanation for what happened. Ten years ago, right after I got sent back a few Angels managed to seal God in his room using unholy methods found in lost and sealed chapters of the Bible from Hell. Lucifer explains that he made me commit sin for ten lives in order for me to get in Hell and escape their trap. He asks me for help because sealing his Archenemy upset the balance of the passing of Souls. And it's something that needs to be rectified. I agree to help him and with agreeing an Old War has resurfaced.

We didn't know your favourite song,
so we chose one from your home town.
A quiet hymn about the joy of God;
I'm sure you would have frowned
behind the outward smile,
as you looked down from above
to bear witness to the solemn mourning.

“quo vadis, domine?”

i. you’re saint peter on a cross,
hung upside-down, staring at the
bright blue and if your arms
weren’t pinned to rotting wood
you’d reach out—

(petrus, dear petrus, why
hast thou forsaken me?)

there’s iron in your grip,
fingers curled in supplication
as you, the fisherman from Bethsaida,
bears only his own sins

the pain fades for a moment
under the sunlight and  
you’d smile if your lips didn’t bleed
at the harsh stretch of skin

they poke your side with a spear,
but only red pours out and the
barren ground below you will receive
no nourishment

you are no god, no holy deity
walking to and fro amongst mortals

(O’ you of little faith, why did you doubt?)

martyr, martyr they’ll chime with each
bell toll, thousands of years from now—
long after your body has perished in
the valley between ***** and Gomorrah

you are simon peter, the betrayer, the liar, the
coward
you are oh so human, and the world will
never forgive you for it
bedrock, they’ll call you, and mean it

you’ll be hailed a saint and people will kiss
your bronze image, dust oil against leaden
feet and imagine that your gaze is not fixed
solemnly to the earth

(now, nothing but a false idol to some,
draped in velvet and handed a crown—
the rooster crows, and so god too will
denounce your existence)

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and the best of the meat,                                                            ­be absent from
the tip of the west side of the woods,                                           of blue cloth,
the treachery of the cliff.                                               World's son gets night,
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The woman who was the back of the journey,
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Leave a comment Sushara Alcohol is the law of Lasminjugeneromenomenomenomenena.
Petrus Budaei zoom zoom zoom zoom in Rong Domini dialect,
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With Abunatak Li Na Cisco Road
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Chung Ullman Nuttum is Ennigi's Upton T-Inch,
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Portrait of a Carthusian
Petrus Christus white
Facebook Europeans
Cold and windy night

Awake at 3 a.m.
Thinking politics
Patience. Planting patience
Flowers. Moby ****'s.

Halloween is coming
I am Robin Hood
Green and brown and arrows
Just like Fire would

Maryland is merry
More rural than I knew
Eric Alterman
Bruce to break on through

                37. 10. 72.