There is sickness.
Subtle insecurity in the tallest tree.
Pride in roots that try
and wont break
Stabbed propped up
behind the kindest
smile trying the hardest.
Men leaving nothing
in death but souls.
speaking in color.
Gray paths never make sense.
And death is
but not without life.
There is sickness.
Curving straight lines
trying to make
Worm eats through to penetrate.
Trespasses, what dirty deeds?
What ichor is this to venerate?
How dare eat, how dare have needs?
Godly viral load unbeatable,
no t-cell left to count.
Wriggling in puddle inconceivable,
piss upon this crucified mount.
Lazarus, risen from the dead,
no dog now licks your wounds.
Lepers now banshees are instead
social workers which we swoon.
And the Roman laws and judges
continue blame, hand down sentence,
as degenerative generation smudges
out from existence, HIV+ penance.
Dissected and pinned against wall,
this writhing experiment oozes.
Whilst priests and politicians naw,
compassion and AIDS funding loses.
Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
the farewell of the magical-masque
the dance of the whirlwind
the twist in valediction
a pantomime of comedy dripping in life’s heat, its tragedy blooms forlorn
silently the mountain-ranges stare
the sky-face won’t relent and contemplates the open-disease in homes
disguised as simple relief – rescue lies cooing in the palm
crumbling in blue-ash beside your grinding-palate
you reach for pen and paper to appease an entity unknown
shrouded in grey, no scavenger can touch the head of one
who carries blessings in the scabbard – the present worthy of now
stairs are slippery, fish are mouthing, anger grows
symbols hop along outrageous, so stylised and signs come in decisive
all at once, almost
there is some purchase in the widening-valley
when climbing-feet need to rest on your narrow angular-will
and wait.. (before them chips rain down)
until the merry-turnstile comes in view
the worm-wheel goes blank a while
and out tunes a dastard-and-devilish prank, courtesy of blunted-fate
sacred-fillies get hacked at by small silver things and they lie slaughtered on stark-plains
and the orb dips in reverse this time
a sooty-traveller from the western-flank
glances out at massive-figures at supine-rest
gets startled by the rude rum-fire
eyes slit and pates distort in hostile-fever
at the starling-ingénue in mock-fatigues and fake-epaulettes
but cheering up with wry-humour makes your feet
a touch too slow to react in time
and the halberd comes crashing down
well, the last thought you hold before your next one
is how utterly beautiful she looked at the station
long, black hair – silky-shining in your eyes and gay-dancing in the wind
when she passed you all her sweet-love from eyes so wet and smile so quiet
and selected dried-fruit in redolent-parcel
a sealed pelt-skin of unmixed-whiskey
along with fresh-baked raisin-bread in cotton-cloth
coarse-sliced and buttered so generous
a semi-rusted dry-tin rattling its bounty of macaroons through that smudgy, dirty window
what sweet-victuals to keep alive . . .
man, that journey is a long one!
(I’M STANDING HERE oh, you just know I am here
AND YES -- I’M WATCHING YOU
and no use looking round now..
YOU CANNOT SEE NOR HEAR ME
or begging a purty-release
oh easy, boy.. EASY!!)
once more, the worm wriggles in microbial-distaste
and the season’s wheel comes dangerously close to being undone
and seconds later, cogs fly hard in every fool’s direction
and luckily.. you catch some in your face.. mouth agape
crushing your tongue
splintering all your dental-treasure
smashing half your reason
no time for moaning.. or eroded-regret.. or even to feel your lips in ribbons
for, when they turn their backs, you will know
what to do..
because you’ve picked some pearls the hard-way..
that atonement could well appear in spells
of any shape
S T, 30 dec 2013
The worm he dances swiftly up the ankle of my bones
He crests the waves of belt buckles and hips as smooth as stones
One wiggle closer to the prize
Of brainpan thoughts and wandering eyes
He brings with him a quaint disease
It breathes a wind that buckles knees
The knees that kept me standing, kept my pupils locked in line
Now this black worm has edged into the highway of my spine
The spiral steps and collar bone, a temporary hurdle
Luckily his slippery frame were made for such a battle
So up he goes to dive into my choppy, brainy sea
And loose the anchor off his ship, infecting happily
cant't you stand a little rain?
A puddle here,
a puddle there
You squirm so helplessly,
desperately seeking out higher ground,
hurriedly scurrying for shelter,
but stuck in a rut
for want of dry land
Some lay before you,
a mass exodus of worm refugees
The blazing sun
shall work against you,
to parch the ground below
How cruel does this world
seem towards you
when all you want is to stay alive?
for one more day
We feel it.
The low tenor and shimmering soprano
it fills us with a teasing rhythm
Amidst the warmth of a shallow breeze
Kindled by a roseate glimmer of fading fire
Impassioned with intent we make our way
from our warm bed in the grass
to climb together to alpine heights
nestled where we can best reach
The edge, the rim through which gods create
that dark abyss which sustains us
With an abrupt rush, we are lifted and consumed
There, the briefest glimmer of sparkling white
and we fall,
pushed by muscular cadence
And finally pulled
Here we move,
Rostellum pierce the pitch
We rook our God
Poor little worm
In the earth
You have no worth
Used for bait
When we fish
Or for a bird
A tasty dish
Crossing the sidewalk
To get to your spot
You didn't make it
It was too hot
You were fried
That you died
Do you have a family
That you leave
Tiny worm children
That will grieve
May your life in heaven
Play in the soil
Make a casting
Know that you
Had some worth
You were tending
To Mother Earth
Beneath the Earth, bequeathed to mud,
The soft pink worm there nobly stood,
And in the muck ahead did gnaw
A path with well-accustomed jaw.
Thus having made himself a place,
He felt the light shine on his face.
For though every worm's stone blind,
He has the sharpest animal mind.
It's what mankind will never know;
It's what the worm will never show;
It's how the meanest thing that lived
Received God's kindest natural gift.
For man will never understand
the lowly worms on which he stands.
Each thing that you have never noticed
Holds in itself some higher office.