Poem: The Flagellant of St. Mary

Flagellants

Coming out of the cold,
The cathedral swallows me,
Digested in its stone belly, malformed,
Another soul lost in masonry,
Another thread in the cosmic carpet,
Another crypt of passing years
Who momentarily walks

From another chapel,
Far away as The Southern Pole,
Voices are caught in webbed transepts,
As I am caught in yours

The whole day I’ve tormented myself,
Bearing guilt for whom I cannot reach,
Those bridges of glass,
Locked in frozen waves,
I am not the key,
Trapped in a man’s body,
No breasts, no blood,
No moon-rent thighs,
No softness to usher in
The tidings of a mother’s heart

For gendered thus,
An evil history is my inheritance,
My very form a symbol of rapacity,
Corruption and vile molestation

I can do nothing right in your eyes

But reaching out,
How fain would I warp this skin,
Invert my genitals,
Hollow myself a womb,
Just to release you from yourself,
Be parturient of your happiness

Skulking in graveyards,
Clothing myself in the skin of ancestors,
All their bodices, and muslins, and Catholic veils,
The Priestess hiding in the gloaming

Can’t you see what lies it all is?
Behind this masque of body,
The Venetian rites of tubercular quarry,
Peel away presence, the whole cosmos
Is the mist of my luminous ashes,
My passion is the sun,
My coolness the moon,
Their union the love I give you

But man-bound, all is odium,
Emasculated by being a man,
I am a half-way thing,
Neither here nor there,
There is no vacancy, no hollow,
In which my love is welcome,
A holy well nobody seeks,
A pilgrimage nobody walks

Behind the silence of my mind,
The Soul is the one that talks

II.
Nevertheless,
I must cohabit with dualities,
Trade in falsehoods,
And gendered neuroses,
Evermore my own flagellant,
My vicious atoner,
In the Chapel of The Mother of God

If I cannot be the Virgin Mary,
Wombless, I wander in Nod

Poem: Wyrd’s End

the-creation-of-fish-and-birds-gustave-dore.jpg

A red slash across the sky,
A crimson flash of blood-burst veins,

Cycling, the moon, restless with strange power,
Pours itself down the throat of my mind,
All but gagging from Mania’s fever wine

What will this night bring?
Haunted by memories of disease,
And diseased memories,
Of howling arctic wastes,
Beleaguered by snowy breaths of wind;
Our haunted footsteps across the tundra

Coming from a cavern of jewels,
I withdraw to a black, oily lake,
The sable entrance of nightmares,
That nursery of monsters,
All bat-wing black,
And wizened with thought,
Until your brain bears no more inscription,
Rotting with the rest of us in the mud

Here I crawled along twilit holloways,
Murderous passages of vague crepuscule,
Mysteries raping my screaming mind,
Fevered by lunar tides – to feel the rain
Pelt against my brain,
And the stonewalls it wears away

Yes, I am the whiskey on the branches,
The bladderwrack on the rocks,
The deliverer of evil,
And mystic, mentalized shocks

I seek vengeance,
Through imagination’s fulfilment,
The weary curse of bottomless oceans,
I sleep, unwearied, on tireless feet,
Following dreams down wayward streets,

But I must give something back,
Relinquish all hold on tangible things,
Yield my nerves to beheaded logic,
As it lies bleeding,
In an executioner’s soft palms

Their fulfilment shall see,
The fruition of Wyrd’s End,
Wine bottles breaking in harvest
As I scarper round the bend

Poem: Conversations With Rumi

rumi

Sweet Rumi, and Prophet Gibran, lend me your hearts!

Let me not be corrupted by hate, nor the enmity of wounded

Pride; the mouldering coal of anger that inflames my myocardia,

And obstructs the outlets of my infectious affection

*

Let me not be a hypocrite – I have promised to give,

So let me give – give, even when I feel only the indifference

And inattention of those I give to – when I offer of myself to

The point of exhaustion only to be met with distant stares

*

It makes this wounded child want to repair into a Grinch,

A burglarizing old Saturn, and declareth thus: “I have

Given, and been denied loving gratitude, so wherefore

Shouldst I give?”

*

Abide not that Reuben! Take that Reuben –

Slap him in the face – and sayeth unto him:

*

“Give, Reuben – give until you have donated the very bones

From your back; give of your skin – give until you are so itchy

And inflamed, your tender layers excoriated by blazing sands,

You can barely stand for the pain of how much you give

*

“By all means cherish those that receive your love,

And return it too, for they heal you and remind you

What it is to be whole – to be the middle ground

Betwixt Heaven and Earth

*

“But cherish even more those who neither take your love,

Nor return it, or if they do, give back only in outward displays

Of silent mockery, or glut the ears of your heart with poisoning

Words; those who take your love as but a trifling snack, and, after

Eating it all to surfeit, with no trace of gratitude, have the temerity

To ask “What’s for dessert?” – those to whom you give your most

Precious things only to have them to converted into missiles of

Unkindness to slay and destroy, like the golden statue of a

Glorious saint or king melted down to make metal for bullets or

Swords –

*

“If those that love you are your healers, then those emperors

And empresses of ingratitude are your teachers: they show you

How to steel your love and keep it pure – to persevere in a love

That cannot be deterred – to make your love the king of all beasts;

To dine on your obstacles as invigorating meats

*

“Evolution thrives on adaptation – so make your love such a one

As this – a love that refuses to give up – that always find a way

To survive – if at first your love does not succeed, endure, and

Search out the forms it needs to take on in order to be the

Emancipating skeleton key, the hidden jigsaw puzzle piece

That connects every heart.”

*

“But the blackness of my anger is so hard,” you say,

“I am depleted, duped, dead – how much longer must

I go on refining the steel of my love against the adamantine

Point of other’s disdain, apathy, and hatred?

*

“Because I have met those that would love me;

That would crucify me with their kindness –

That can clearly see all I strive to do for the world,

And see that it is good.

*

“Why would I consent to being a pillar of odium

When I do not have to cast myself so bloody upon

Embattled plains? Why would I submit myself to

Aching disinterest, of knocking flint against flint to

Try and rouse love in an unwelcome heart when I could

Receive love elsewhere ready-made?”

*

“Why would you, indeed?” said Rumi. “Take the easy way

And all will later be hardness; take the hard way, and, as you

Now know, much else will become easier thereby – better yet,

Unite them both, and be indifferent, accepting, and loving of

Either.

*

“No one said you had to make a choice, because how can we

Ever just make one choice about anything? In selecting one thing,

We also create the anti-matter of all we failed to select, and, by

Opting not choose one thing, we are still kept in the pall of

Non-choice’s shadow. One may choose The Path of Happiness

And still find sadness pursuing them like a silent cat – one may

Choose to renounce the world, only to find that the world still

Pursues them in their renunciation, and nothing has been

Renounced at all. One will always find many things one did

Not choose, so why place such great esteem in choices after

All?

*

“Instead of worrying about what to choose, be mindful of what

You do with what chooses you – be kind to those things you do

Not choose – you’ll have to learn to live with everything eventually

Anyway, so why not make things easier and harder for yourself –

Isn’t that what you’ll do anyway?”

*

“So, this is what I get,” thought I,More of the hollow philosophy

I went into the desert to get away from: survive – live – die – or

Do not die; choice against choicelessness – self-control verses

Recklessness – egotism verses selflessness – virtue and sin in

Psycho-sexual union breeding more babies of ambiguity to

Keep the world going on and on and on.”

*

“I hear you, brother,” said Rumi, tugging me by the hand,

And pulling me further into those golden desert sands, “I

Hear your cries, your confusion, your incertitudes, and

Desolating and uplifting attitudes. I hear your thoughts

And all the sly silky nothings that slink between those

Thoughts. I hear them all as clearly as I hear a jukebox

That spurs on a barbaric barroom brawl.

*

“You want what we all want: you want to love and

Be loved – to feel that confusion is something you

Can overcome – that there is a direction, a purpose,

A motion in life you can eternally trust in – and

Even though you rebel against all linear things,

You still wish the course of life wouldn’t always

Be so frustratingly pinball quantum.

*

“Think of your friends, Rube. Those who are your friends

May later becomes your enemies, and, by becoming your

Enemies, may prove better friends in giving you things to

Strive against.

*

“How often have those you loved only proven to be stepping

Stones towards those you would love mightier later? How many

Dashed hopes have unleashed greater joys from the corpses of

Those they lost?

*

“The problem is the question of Finality – of Certainty.

The desire to have things so, and to have them always be

So: to have an eternal day, and be done with night – to

Have an eternal summer and be done with the savage

Ineluctability of winter – to have just enough love and

No more than you can manage – to have just enough

Solitude, but not enough that all your hopes are ravaged –

This golden mean – this constant ratio – this middle income

Of truth and light – of sustainable joy somehow always able

To vivify itself with an insurance policy against discontentment’s

Canker

*

“But we live in a seasonal world – an excessive world –

A world that will always take things too far, and, in the

Process, take you too far along with it:

*

“So why not smile and shout when you are happy,

And wail and cry when you are sad – and then reverse

Them, and dance and sing when your are unhappy

And cry with mightiness when your joy stabs you mindlessly

In the heart?

*

“Either way you experience –

Either way you keep on going –

Because there is no true stillness in this world;

But, like the ball in the pinball machine, you will

Always find yourself rocketing between one point

Of light, and a pair of pincers always ready to strike

You back.

*

“Like Homer’s Odysseus, you must choose between Scylla

And Charybdis, knowing that, in this union of sea monsters,

There is no real choice at all; between this rock and a hard

Place, you will feel the hardness of hardness, the softness of

Softness; the softness of hardness, and the hardness of softness;

And you will find joy and sorrow in them both; wisdom and ignorance

In them in equal measure.

*

“So what does it matter? It doesn’t matter which way you sail –

The point is that you sail. The point is that you have the courage

To be freely buffeted by the winds, lapped by the tonguing foamy

Surges of Neptune’s inconstant lover’s broil. Stay at home, and the

Sea will only seek you out – go to sea and seek out, and you will be

Sought by land just the same, if that be not the crux of all your

Seeking.

*

“Feeling stable, you long for change – feeling only surging

Tides of change, you long for the certitude of land to give

You a supply of paradise’s incorruptible currency.

*

“Again, the point is neither in choosing change or changelessness,

Finding both in neither, and neither in the above – the point is in

The motion – in the desiring, the end of desiring, and then the returning

Of desiring all over again.

*

“That is the point:

Motion – stillness – love.”

*

“I carry no assumptions about anything,” said I,

In return, throwing a bolt of lightning against the

Sand to make it into a glass to mirror us both.

*

“I know that one cannot choose happiness anymore

Than one can opt to completely outdo the conniving

Machinations of suffering. I choose neither an easy

Love nor or a hard love, for there is no love to choose,

Love being all there is.

*

“But I am human. I ask questions. I look to the future

And I speculate – I hold up and comparatively weigh

All the possible journeys I make. No one will ever truly

Know if they are the in process of experiencing the best

Of all possible worlds; but still – still there is the desire

That with every action and new direction one takes, that,

In the motion of that direction, we take it and make it in

The best possible way – that we leave no stone of potential

Wisdom, knowledge, joy, difficulty, or obstruction unturned,

Unfulfilled – that we do not lay to waste all those gifts that

Are made to us – that we make sure our cup runs over –

That we do not cease to drink wine until the vineyard has

Completely run dry.

*

“Who would do otherwise? In drinking milk from the tits

Of the world, who wouldn’t suck at and lust against every

Sacred udder they can find – who would be content to see

The dizziest of dizzy heights without being quest-proud in

Their vertigiousness to see them?

*

“But I don’t know really know what I’m saying anymore.”

*

“Then say nothing,” said Rumi to me, sweetly, “say nothing

And be sweet; say nothing and sing instead; say nothing and

Be ceaselessly still and silent and unceasingly without silence

And stillness in your dizzying quest for life and quest to seek

Repose therefrom.”

*

Then we took one another by the hand

And carried on walking through the sands.

*

 

Poem: Janus

janus

Janus – the two-headed god of January:

Looking backwards – looking forwards –

In that cross-eyed expansion of mental

Bilocation, we fear a future that will not

Carry us away from the past – clutching

The skirts of redemption, we may find

The pain we escaped is a pale relation

Of the pain we’re to embrace – leaping

Over a hedgerow spun into a maze, to

Be labyrinthed in a pavement’s fracture

*

In the spaces that follow,

Every bend and every hollow,

Every moment is a release and

A return to an ailment that cannot

Be cured – and is only intensified in

The healing

*

I feast myself on the bland statements of others,

While love whickers itself out of silence and absence;

And like a sun is a single point of light in a sky of darkness,

Love is lost in the meaning of meaningless tweeting, yet is

Ever-present in the particulates of light, that can even give

Sunburn to the darkness

*

Looking backwards, I see all that I’ve believed crucified

On an ego of prayers – looking forwards, I find dreams

Coalescing into coarser fabric, and moments that were

Once replete with meaning being relegated to sideshow

Casing.

*

I see love in the shuffling of socks –

In the stridulation of the re-alignment

Of slippers – I see love in uneaten dinners;

In embryonic melodies spinning themselves

Out of a silence, too shy, too elusive, to be

Captured

*

I see up ahead the death of waiting;

And of myself pressing against the

Gates of Hell, urging it not to be

Reborn as: Waiting For something

Else

*

Sometimes, I see so much, that my eyes

Are torn out of the sockets of The Present,

And those barren hallways of eyeless glory,

Make me look like a child in a daze ever

Darkling

*

Because Janus only has two heads,

And the third is compiled by the consumption

Of the two others – just as love will eat away

All who bear it, and carry the rest to the sewers

*

 

Poem: The Snowy Owl

snowy-owl

Snowy Owl of my dreams;

Can you help me fly above my fears?

Can you help me traverse those acres

Of snow, with courage as my only

Candle?

 *

O, Ancestors! Rise up to me!

Beat your drums – weave your

Shawls out of stellar glass: for

Tonight we will unfold our wings,

Set foot in the chariot of the

Cosmic Horse, to dine with

The spectres of substance

*

And you are my spectres.

You have raised me up in

More lives than I can count;

Delivered me into an out of

Strife – made me a nervous

Newlywed, and a grieving

Wife

 *

And I know what it is to grieve –

To be pierced by the fervour of

The night; to cast that ebon shawl

Into luminous hallways that know

No night, but The Night of Nothing –

To evanesce into skies so removed

From density, it integrates All

Into The One.

*

II.

But, I will not speak of The One with

Number-stained lips – I will only speak

To you of Snowy Owls – of the fabulist

Messengers who sustain my dreams,

And ease me back into Everything

 *

And that is what I will take from you,

Snowy Owl, Dream Owl, fertilizing the

Thoughts of billions with your phantasmal

Pinions – with the phantasmagoria of every

Flight that showers us all in stars

*

That is what I will take from you, Snowy

Owl – I will take the Absolute Everything I see

You clutching in your claws.

*

For your yellow eyes see everything –

They, too, inject themselves into the

Veins of the night – they, too, tell the

Soul where it must go, to berobe its

Fertile distress with Wisdom.

 *

And This I will Bless.

And This I will Love.

And This I will harbour

In an eternal chest –

That lifts us above

The contagion of

Sorrow.

*

For I am done with sorrow. For,

Though I still weep, and my body,

Verily, often feels like an unreleased

Bag of tears – still, I cry, howl, weep,

And wail – still I will explode with the

Gift of Liberty, with the starburst of

Every tear fall

*

And, as God weeps those self-same tears

Back into your face; as Gods and Goddesses

Cry – every tear a legion – the pain milked

From every unwanted goodbye – as God weeps

Into my face, I will weep back into hers; and ours will

Be a union of such terrific tears, that it could be

Neither seen nor heard.

*

Then I will be The Snowy Owl –

Then I will be the parchment of

Every tear – then I will be the fragrance

Of an imploding happiness that always

Has too much to share

 *

And, as I rip from your beak the heart-felt

Letter that you bear, sealed with the

Stamp of an elastic soul, I will weep into

The miracle of your thunderous words –

Give myself up to the birds – to sell my

Remains to The City of Shadows, and the

Thirst of every Hug.

*

 

Poem: The Epic of The Accidental Prophet

sadak_in_search_of_the_waters_of_oblivion

There is no relief from love – no

Sacred anaesthetic, that can in anyway

Mute its torrential rages – no, nor nothing

Assuage, that to which, with torrid heart, my

Soul doth cleave. Afflicted with this chronic

Diathesis, I long to kiss your face,

Like a hunter longs to kill;

I try and sit and meditate –but

Your absence eviscerates me – it

Torments me – and in a rash, unskilled,

Surgery, it tips all the organs from

Out of my love-sick body, and piles

Them up before you, like a skyscraper of

Agony – perhaps we could play Jenga

With those exiled parts of my body,

And the first one to make my

Organs collapse, will be the one

To win my heart – but I fear

Being subjected to such chance superstition;

There is only one person to whom I wish

To give my heart – Everybody else

Must wait in line, until my

Madness has come to an end.

For I am mad – did I not tell you

I was love-sick? This is no psychosis,

No base schizophrenia, no bipolar, no

Sociopathy, no hypothalamic disorder – this

Is The King of Maladies – The Emperor

Of Madness – The Empress of Insanity –

For love is much akin to the uncapped

Lusts of empire: it puts no limit to

Things – but, in an ever-expanding, yet

Equally restrictive monomania, it contaminates

All things with the persuasion of its

Madness, until we no longer know the meaning

Of Reason.

II.

But, there is a faculty, that makes it

A stranger sickness still – the victim

Does not wish to be cured of his

Ills, but only to get sicker and

Sicker.

I was healthy once –

Now, to sickness I am committed.

When I am with you, and you

Seduce me with your silence, all is peace,

But the violence beats out most terribly, the

Moment your being is cast away from

Me. Oh, unkind goodbyes! Aching, evil,

Inevitability of Parting!

Loneliness has befriended me much, in mine

Short life – I have had much occasion

To occupy the desolate comfort, of its

Wasted confines. Now I know the definition

Of loneliness – it is defined by your absence –

From this I have deduced the meaning of

Peace – it is defined by the power of your

Presence

III.

My body is simply not strong enough to

Withstand a love as big as this. My old

Body must be destroyed, to make room

For something tougher. My spirits come

To me in the early morning, and treat me with

Lascivious cruelty – they convulse my body,

Rending it into agonizing positions – contorting

Me into postures of excruciating pain, all in aid

Of this one stated mission:

“To let love in –

To let love in –

Oh, Reuben, with your tiny bones! –

Serenader of space, an aspirant towards

Ungainly tombs – you must be rent;

Prescribed with torment – to let this love

In. For a love like this is not conducive to

Stable security, and hale good health: we

Must kill you, and lay you low;

We must make of you a towering

Inferno; a bonfire in which an effigy of

Your past self can be burnt – a

Sacrificial officiant to the future – for

This is a second coming, just as there is a

Third coming, a fourth coming, and a

Fifty-thousandth coming – so must

You be prepared! We will grind your

Bones to mercury – powder your heart

To cinnabar; we will pulverize your agonies

Into a crystalline consistency, we can sniff like

Cocaine, through our celestial nostrils: for, as you

Long – so we long for you!

We visit you nightly – we are addicted

To your agonies – to your ecstasies – to

The imperishable truth we find impounded

In every last one of your love-stricken

Selves.

Hurry up, sisters! God speed you!

We must kill him! Pull off his arms,

And throw them over there! Take off his

Legs, and throw them over there! Now! –

With this de-timbered torso, we can begin

The installation process. Hand me my scissors!

Hand me my knives! We must sever the umbilical

Cord that keeps him mired in

Any blasphemous notion of predictability, and

Suspend him in the joyous depth, of death, forever

And ever! Oh, you’ll like it there, Rube – where

Every moment, is an eternity of madness – in which

Strength is defined by the extent to which you

Surrender – in which your power is determined by

How much you let yourself be dismembered – Remember! –

YOU PRAYED FOR THIS:

Your prayed to be intoxicated, to be abominated,

By love – and now we bring your gifts, most

Terribly, like a man who gets a guillotine,

When all he wanted was a butter knife. So,

You want a wife, do you? Then let it be this! –

Let this be the marriage of Life and Death – a

Matrimonial alliance between Order and Chaos – between

All contrary opposites, that must be brought

To breed – yes, indeed!

This is just what you need!

And, never has a prayer been answered

So agonizingly, as this for which you so

Wretchedly prayed – Ah! Do not dismay! –

For once we have crushed you, and processed

You through the manufactory of endless non-

Confinement – (though the price might be

Exorbitant) – you will come out the

Other side, equipped with powers, greater

Than can be fathomed – this isn’t The Chemical

Wedding of Guildenstern and Rosencrantz – but

The abominable wedding of Heaven with Earth – of

Cruelty with mirth – of master with serf – of

Death with birth. Chaos is nothing to be

Afraid of – it is just a cocktail in

The making.

But, if you do fear something,

Fear love – fear love, whose

Mighty arms can bring all things

To utter destruction, with the most tender

And affectionate, of caresses – it lays

Cities to waste with its panted breath – tears

The world in twain through the rumblings of its

Quaking-heart – when it has sex, whole universes

Collide – it crushes planets, into powder, it

Sniffs up its nose – just as we, your Dakinis,

Have chosen to do with yours.

Oh, ungovernable lust of being to

Non-being! Oh, holy anguishments, with

Which the sky is rent! – liberate this boy

From the corpse of his body, and let him

Be, irrevocably commanded:

TO LET LOVE IN!

TO LET LOVE IN!

TO LET LOVE IN!”

IV.

With the roar of these words, I

Was struck with thunder – my head

Was immediately lopped off, and my

Organs committed to the torturous workings

Of a sausage maker.

A parade of beautiful demons – each one

Most luscious, in their toothsome grotesqueness –

Carried me, swingingly, up The Holy Mountain.

It was the darkest night of the year, where wizards

Consign one another to darkling realms, and you can

Hear The Black Eagle, ascend from the depths, to

Thrust his talons,

Into The Holy Mountain.

Up on top, in his nest, composed of

Gnarled thorns, Ekajati sits – she

Is the most ancestral shamaness:

Her skin is a venous blue, plastered together

From the cyanosis, and suffocation, of a

Thousand breathless worlds. Both her eyes

Have been stolen from her skull – she

Sacrificed them to The Black Eagle –

All she has left, is a throbbing orb,

Betwixt her brows, that has no iris,

No pupil – a pulsating, glaucous, sightless

Thing, that can see farther than all

The eyes in the world.

She wears no clothing – only the savage

Vestments of stolen bones, which clash

Together most atonally, as she dances

To the beat of your heart.

She has only one breast, affixed to

The middle of her chest.

And now, taking your tubercular

Skeleton, lovingly in her arms, she raises its

Tips, those skinless lips, to athirst from her

Shrivelled old tit – the nipples from which,

The diabolical milk of enlightenment, is to be

Wrung, and wrung, and

Wrung.

V.

I woke myself up, and found myself

On the darksome banks of a river.

I took up my staff, and clashed it

Against some boulders –

Instantaneously, wine flowed

Out of it in jucious cataracts –

This wine spread out, through the

Veins of the universe, and thus nourished

The hearts of all living things. All beings

Were re-married to their most sacred selves –

People no longer lived their lives in parts;

But in wondrous, wondrous fusion.

Love abounded. Disease was terminated.

Wars ended. And Peace emerged Victorious,

Quickly bathing itself, in these torrents of

Wine, which divested it of the agony of the

Convulsive fits, it needed to propel itself

Here.

I was raised aloft, on the jubilant arms

Of my people.

The cheering was so loud, throughout

All the realms, the music of the spheres

Was deafened, and not even a dog-food jingle,

Among the din could be heard. On this wave of

Jubilation, I was carried through the streets, through

Dales, mountains, rivers, and ghastly palisades,

Until my beard became of the costliest white, and

My hair turned a luminous gold. But I was not

Old – but a shiver of time – an Ancient of

Days, who, in seeking out a cure for his

Malaise, had accidentally cured the universe

Itself.

VI.

But, once the drinking started,

And the festival was properly

Initiated, I found myself still

Feeling alone. I looked to my

Subjects, from my mountain top, in

Which the sky was my palace, and I asked

Myself: “How is it that they have been freed?

That all of them have found their places, their

Eternal flames, their partners, their heroes, and

Their fragrant belle dames – and yet I, their

Infernal liberator, am still held in the thrall of

Sadness; still robed in grief; still adorned with

Tongueless silence; and still sung to by a peaceless

Peace? Is this simply how the universe must

Subsist? That, in order for all beings to be

Jubilant, one man must perpetuatingly

Grieve?”

Issuing his plaint to the auroral

Sanctuaries of heaven, He betook

Himself from his Sky Palace, upon

His palatial mountain, and endured

Years of fatal wanderings; trembling

Over craggy landscapes, on which no

Feet had ever stood – and still

He heard the Dakinis warble –

“TO – LET – LOVE – IN!”

VII.

One day, while the prophet

Was still wandering in his quenchless

Solitude, he had betaken himself from

His heights, to the lowest of uninhabitable

Regions. “Perhaps nothingness is to be

My only bride?” he thought. “I spend my

Days, thronged with catalogues of ancient

Goddesses, like Ekajati, and noble

Kurukulla, while, daily, the earth rises

From its slumber to greet me. But

Where is the flesh of my flesh? The

Spirit of my spirit? The bones of my

Bones? Perhaps I shall find it here,

Where nothing is ever found – where

There is nothing but toil and groans; where,

Like Ezekiel, I shall spend small eternities,

Lying on my left side, until my arms have

Rotted down to their roots, and nothing

Ever feels right.”

IX.

To my left were some geysers,

And muddy pools, which, to the recollection

Of even the hardiest historian, had always

Lain in waste.

As I slept, and the stars furnished the

Heavens with the possibilities of sad stories

Of stranger solitudes, even further removed than

This one – stories untold – stories of entire

Races of peoples housed in just one unhappy

Soul, and where parched deserts span entire

Planets, billowing through the heavens, in

Search of moisture, to redeem their insatiable

Thirst – it was then, that I, the forgotten Prophet

Of Oddiyana, heard those geysers come back

To life.

It began subtly – the muddy pools heated up

In extremity, until they boiled, and the earth

Suddenly uprose with prismatic flames, that

Jettisoned colours across the horizon. I got

Up, and invigorated with energy of euphoric

Scope, I danced at this display, unravelling

My robes in an expression of delight, until

I was as naked as the unclothed morning. It

Was at that crossroads – these rainbows flames

Projecting new stars for themselves – that I met

The tumultuous resurgence of Hope;

For there is always more hope to be had,

When there is more eternity to be groped.

X.

But, I still had greater sights to behold – for,

Out of this bleeding mass of symphonic earth, a

Face began to form. Not the face of giantess, or titan,

Seeking emancipation from its stony agonies – but

The face of a female passenger through time, who

Bore the markings of beauty eternal.

Though I expected the face to be wrought

With pain, so fearsomely did the earth shake,

No trace of discomfort was to be seen: only

The first gleanings of a twilight peace, that

Could somehow bear the fiery blasts of hell, as

The sunstroke of paradise.

With great screams of earth, this new

Aeon of being began to arise; and,

Recoiling from the screaming, the earth

Blasted, severed, and broke out in

Colossal eruptions, like a lady in labour,

Who finds herself giving birth to a child,

Too big for her to bear. I cast myself

Against the crumbling ground, and

Withstood this fiery fury of earth, ‘til

These eruptions had come to an

End.

XI.

Abruptly, the labours of Gaia

Came to a close. I took my

Fear-bound, sand-encrusted eyes from

The Earth, in which they had been enclosed;

Looking before me, I found my heart clenched

At a beauteous sight: there, before me, what once

Had been fury in embryonic flame, had now

Congealed itself into a stately goddess – eyes,

Which has been pupil-less as Ekajati’s, were now

Traced with an ethereal blue, of pallid hue – a head,

Which had once been as bald as the ground from which

It was crafted, was now ignited with a pall of

Hair, hanging glassine against her

Alabaster neck. Clad in Grecian dress,

And holding a bony wand of embrous pearl, in

Her hand, I recognized the markings of mine

Own.

I clung to her, and cried out to

The Heavens, so that every last bejewelled

Galaxy might know:

“Flesh of my flesh!

Spirit of my spirit!

Bones of my bones!”

Taking her trembling hand, and,

Journeying to the virgin stars,

The flames had created,

I took her back to my sky palace,

Where love was finally

Let in.

 

Poem: Sky-Gazing

nut

Sky-gazing

I could weep for confusion

The clouds are inflamed with the tangled nebulae

Of a mystic history

Suspended in a trance of strata

When will my apocalypse come?

When will those monstrous 72 hours

Begin their risible countdown?

A meteorite is arching through the heavens

Like a couchant lion

Eating its own coat of arms

This isn’t Piccadilly Circus

But a Pickled Onion

Take the sleep out of my eyes

I need to be awake for this

 

Poem: Hungover Sun

hungover

You have to be careful

In a profession such as mine

When alcohol is the only currency

You’re likely to be paid in

You wake up in the morning

And will the bed sheets to transmogrify

Into the dream woman of your choice

Aliens consulting you with metallic tones

Trickling from angelic, silver tongues;

Stacks of books

Rise up to oppress you

Skinning you with an antiquarian scholarliness

That leaves no cathedral unturned

I suppose I can cope with the nausea

But who couldn’t

After playing witness to my smile?

I fall off a barstool

Throw up a song

And watch the hungover sun

Hesitatingly rise

 

 

Poem: Seek Out the Darkness

inferno_321

Do not seek out the light

Seek out the darkness

Search out all the monsters

That you are running from

And give them each

A great big hug

Reach out to your inner devils

And invite them all to tea

They’re nothing to be afraid of:

Only angels in disguise

Closer to Buddhahood

Than any of the dualistic spiritualists

Who refuse to acknowledge

That shit still pours

From out of their sanctified assholes

See a flower in a corpse

And the corpse in a flower;

How the bones of bliss

Are built on the blood and bones

Of the world

Then you may look your personal assassin

Right in the eyes

And give them a sloppy great kiss

Dante knew paradise was most quickly reached

By taking a detour through the underworld

So seek out the darkness

If you want to find the light

 

 

Poem: To Be a God

praise-fathergod1

To be a god

Is to permit the impermissible

To repress the irrepressible

To accept the unacceptable

To the love the unlovable

And to reconcile the irreconcilable

To be rapturously intimate

Yet unbearably neutral

To know all the answers

Yet ask all the wrong questions

To experience being absolutely everything

Whilst being fundamentally unaware of it

To be a god

Is to be more or less the same

As everything else

No different

From you or I

Or the fly that nourishes itself

On your dog’s excrement

Say hello to the fly

Say hello to yourself

Say hello to God

Hello!