Give Them Chains and They Will Worship

If you’d but set my weary heart to waking I’d be yours.

I’d change my soul for a morsel of certainty that you hear me.

Instead, I brave the frosty night alone. An unlit candle in the one hand, and a flask in the other.

There are no vigils in this place. Maybe not ever again.

I’m yours still, but with agony.

The listeners, they speak with such discontent about the lives of others, but when they speak it is final.

Silent ears for a silent night, and red ink for our burial. Bathed in absence, coated in longing for reunion.

When east meets west, the light will shine.

East met West, and the light shone brighter than the sun.

Then they were whispers on the passing wind.

Overlooked, pain and sorrow make sense now, but let’s not get too hasty.

Forget the words of our fathers, we’ve transcended into the beyond place.

Light that candle if you wish, but if it’s you, we’d prefer you be gone.

We’d damn ourselves a thousand deaths before we took away the bread.

Give them bread, and they will follow.

Peace is War.

Give them assurance, and they will damn it into certainty.

Freedom is Slavery.

Give them chains and they will worship.

Ignorance is Strength.

Feed them, don’t pester them with freedom, it’s too sweet an elixir.

They simply can’t bear it. And you have damned them with it.

If you’d but give us a sign, some work of heaven, we would bow down

You’ve stolen everything.

We sought to erect three tents

You interrupted, and ruined everything.

We built them anyways.

Money.

We sought to shatter your peace.

Self.

We sought to shatter your people.

Enlightenment.

We sought to take your throne by force.

I wonder if you hear me, sitting in your Reichstag,

I wonder if you’ll remember our weary and departed

There’s no answer but one

and this answer

I sometimes do not like

My Eyes Have Seen

In anticipation He waits
silent, solemn
praying with the saints

In hope he prays
smiling, longing
counting down the days

In faith he knows
a messiah comes
to these, the low

To the lowly he whispers
of the king enthroned in flesh
and glory

His eyes have parted
a great mystery
in anticipation of the promise

Looking for the consolation
he eagerly awaits to see
not kings or gold or riches

he looks not for mansions
or palaces and diamond causeways
but for the One obedient

He looks for little salvation,
all humility and gurgles
a child, this child, salvation

This is the salvation
This is the meaning of it all
This little child, bearing the weight of Glory

I’ve joined a biblical poetry group and we’re focusing on bringing out some creative examinations of biblical characters throughout the Scriptures. This one is based on Simeon in Luke chapter 2. He is one of my favorite biblical characters and i hope this poem explains why.

Peace be with you always,
Eli

Waiting Game

And so the tired old dance goes on
what hideous frames hide within a stone’s throw
aching for the freedom to be
motion like clockwork hiding behind
7:45 in the morning and the delusions
that everything begins the way it ends

those frames, built like iron giants
from the dreams of our fathers
on the tears of our mothers
and the corpses of children

I’ve had a brilliant idea,
a novel plot
before it all crumbles beneath us
terror from the world we have wrought upon ourselves
this is not a poem

answer the phone dear,
from empty autumn
where everything once lonely
continues to traverse the boulevard
drifting like the dead leaves that make lovers content

when it all starts to call again
like the ringing phone
asking for redemption
do we echo the lines we’ve been taught,
or break away and change the future?

ugliness is green and grown
sprouting up like a manifest
there’s no grand finale,
we all simply leave, one at a time

What hideous strength lies in broken frames
what mighty terror in the hearts of men
lives happen in technicolor now
but once there was no time

I’ve had a plot to discern
the nature of the universe
with a single moment of clarity
a single meditation
and i have failed

this cup of tea cannot console me
where I’ve gotten it wrong
and no poem, story or song
has the ability to now atone
or set right what has been done

When the tides rise and flood our gates
I’ll fall by the wayside,
looking into a fractured mirror
an echo of a word never spoken
the shadow of a mind projected onto this stage

interlude.
interlude.
interlude.
resume.

Every step taken in waking
echoes forever in our dreams
and hell is simply repeating everything we did once
forever and ever

when it ends, who knows what we might be?
are we angels?
I think not.
Watch me, watch me.

Look at the watch now.
Look at the time.
when it all resumes in silence
will it all have been rehearsal?

Sadly, it shall have been a grand game of waiting
waiting for perfection to happen
building on center stage
a mimic that shall never have an audience

when life works out her strange and dastardly loops
and Godel meets Escher in Sarajevo,
then, then we shall be gods again
eating from the tree of life

then you shall have that which you want
and I shall simply live
we’ll let the world grow round us
and enjoy the lonely autumn breeze

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Spread The Joy Around

To rising and falling,
to echoing the victory,
to falling freely
we raise a glass and spread the joy

To the garden of the gods we toast
to the stones that testify
and the knowledge we’ve stolen
we raise a glass and spread the joy

We have become like God
in the land South of Mamre
We raise up for ourselves
many tomes and prayers

Waiting with impunity
laughing at the feeble ones
we toast to our love
we raise a glass and spread the joy

Metropolitan gods
no longer in our hearts
we thought the mountains would crumble
but we raise a glass, and drink our tears

Temples in the subway
capture the weary hearts
of the wayfaring and empty crowds
a chorus of broken backlit screens

glowing in the darkened night
echoing the cold and empty glow
of hearts ablaze
with the power of nothing

wait, and you will see
perhaps it might be true
that they themselves
are raising a glass to spread the joy

if sputnik is empty
who else shall hear our prayers?
If all the world’s a stage,
when can we stop acting?

to the valley of the saints we speak
to the stones grown long silent
to the good that we’ve made evil
we raise a glass, and then play coy

To empires and hordes, the forces we’ve unleashed
here’s a toast to remorseless defeat
to standing fetteredin the square for all the world to see
we raise a glass, and spread the joy

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To Unknown Gods

When all is well and silent,
our friend shall meet you
in your faraway places,
down the river’s edge

When you look out over the wandering horizon
you’ll never find the end
She’s always one step ahead of you
pulling you towards the end

And for a moment,
the silken wind echoes something
you thought you knew before
only to leave you longing

A passing whisper
the memory of lover’s touch
beneath this tree in the night
the leaves like stained glass

A big oak cathedral
to the way things were
a hollow altar
to the love shared in the midnight wind

When all is empty allegiance
you’ll show them your bruises
and the night will whisper back
‘what matter is it to you?’

A look into the mirror
will confirm your suspicions
you’re not who you thought you were
wholeheartedly another creature

Maybe it’s not far to go at all
but we might be frozen, stone
stuck in the rising Sunday,
memorials to our quarrels

When all is well and silent
it will be because we’ve become
altar stones to unknown gods
and the argument has finally ceased
by force

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Catchers in the Midnight Wind

Poured out,
these libations line your waiting altar
forgotten though you may be

slipping by,
the things that once we held so dear
discarded memories

echoing,
in the night’s once dormant breeze
that catches like the storm

watching out,
for catchers in the midnight wind
to gently lead them home

breathing deep,
the things that once consumed our globe
collect the dust and keep it like treasure

memories,
the wants of once important things
holding onto what was once the sky

forgotten,
keys left standing in a waiting lock
never to be opened

collected,
at mirror’s edge, they wait with silence
locked behind another life

in the end,
there’s nothing left,
but bones beneath the darkened soil

Jurgen Moltmann on The Experience of God

When I love God I love the beauty of bodies, the rhythm of movements, the shining of eyes, the embraces, the feelings, the scents, the sounds of all this protean creation. When I love you, my God, I want to embrace it all, for I love you with all my senses in the creations of your love. In all the things that encounter me, you are waiting for me.

For a long time, I looked for you within myself, and crept into the shell of my soul, protecting myself with an armour of unapproachability. But you were outside—outside myself—and enticed me out of the narrowness of my heart into the broad place of love for life. So I came out of myself and found my soul in my senses, and my own self in others.

The experience of God deepens the experiences of life. It does not reduce them, for it awakens the unconditional Yes to life. The more I love God the more gladly I exist. The more immediately and wholly I exist, the more I sense the living God, the inexhaustible well of life, and life’s eternity.

—Jurgen Moltmann, The Spirit of Life, 98

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Life from Beaten Skin

Would that weeping could turn misery to anthems
I’d weep a valley of tears if it might ease your bitter sorrow
I’d shed a single drop of blood in earnest, if it might calm the waters
that divide you and i
 
 
There’s no turning back from this i suppose
another season’s passing touch,
lingers but a moment before disappearing
off into the distance where the wolves await
the growing moon to wax full
before dying again under their watchful eye
 
 
I’ve done it i suppose,
I’ve made this leaf,
every vein hand crafted through recognition
every capillary running across the skin,
unique
 
 
You never miss anything as long as your eyes are open
but the burden to create order out of nothing
to whisper light
it’s impossibly heavy, even for lovers under the autumn moon
 
 
when you look into that mirror
you see absence again
as youth falls off, shake the dust
 
 
as hearts grow weary under the bonds of separation
shake that heavy dust off a once
slow beating heart
 
 
feel the algorithm pulse life into your broken veins
and know your tears are the language of God
what’s written into your beating heart
ineffable
 
 
If tears could turn to anthems
every country might have one.
Instead, we have a basket full of tears
and a broken song upon our lips
we haven’t created beauty
we’ve created madness
 
 
if hearts could mend from ashes,
i’d pour out rivers of stitches
but as it stands,
would that beauty could rise from empty dust
and life from beaten skin

The Search

I went about one afternoon, to see if I could perhaps find you.

I looked high and low, with a handful of prayers clinched tight in my fist.

My wits gathered about me I began to run, the sun caught my hair and made me stop.

I ran out onto the plain, and for a moment on that bright sunny day,

it was Christmas.
 
 
I’d love to hold you underneath this water.

Love to hold you over, and fall apart in your torrential crescendo of violence.

Have then, just a little patience.

My arms are weary set, Iron-heavy, thrashing like a colossus.

But when I find you, I know you and I’ll do this dance all over again.
 
 
All the more reason to make our own justice, he says.

If there are no hooks, there will not be a ceiling.

If there’s no ceiling, then there’s no floor.

I want to be irreversibly guilty.

Make it so.

If I could stand accused before you all.

My eyes would bleed love.

The guilt is the beauty.

I’ve learned that now.
 
 
So let me be guilty, at least I’ll swallow victory in the end.

Let this wandering hour be gone from me.

You think I’m underneath this wall, stuck, waiting to be killed.
 
 
Everyone loves a sadist. At least we’ll say, we did.

Justice isn’t self evident,

it’s hidden, and everywhere it’s found it’s snuffed out.

End of line.
 
 
We’re waiting, waiting. And the maidens will dance with dainty fury.

A frantic lullaby echoed on their bleeding lips.

The beaches of Eire are burning.

Let their hearts fall, at least it’s not so bad that way.

I stand before you condemned,

the sun fades into blindness

a smile on my eager face.

Sunrise Girl

Sunrise girl, passing from one morning to another, a morning caught in his arms, only to leave the impression of beauty before fading into another memory in another recollection, preempting the emptiness to be left behind. The void though is a fond one, an emptiness that is a transfigurative one, leaving a light behind it, even if only for a moment. It is a light that leaves longing on the lips. Sunrise girl you enlighten the world, but leave it in shadow when you leave, the day you leave behind is the longing of twilight.

 

You bring the morning sun, you lay out the clouds and scatter them to the four winds that they might carry them in the shapes of dreams and revelations, and they carry your impression, approved by your charming whisper, carried into the early twilight before the breaking of dawn

 

You bring the day, but you bring it at the expense of twilight, of lasting ignorance, and in shedding light on something less than alive, you yourself have brought its own death before it. Your light is a terror to those who are asleep, those who would have remained if not for your touch

 

With every sunrise that you bring, you bring your own death keeper of dreams. You disseminate them among the weary, and in instilling hope into the weakened, betray your own hopelessness as you bring dreams out of shadow. With the evanescing shade comes reality like a putrid corpse in the form of sunrise before the perceptions of an unwitting night.

 

Haunted by the memory of sleepless nights, by broken hearts left in the recollection of your tears, the guilt you run from sunrise after sunrise, enlightening and illumination after illumination makes your countenance darker and darker. Feeling the pain just as equally as they do, knowing the subtle sense of loss that comes as the day brings commonality back into perception. As your dawn casts them into even deeper shadows.

 

Mortality blurs in your memory and you become cold, as the mirror shows you less and less of yourself, and more and more of a citadel, a fortress to protect a bleeding heart enshrined on a throne of tears, the weakness of which causes such great strength, inverted, perverted, true. The cold icy sting of your eyes, protects your weakened gasps, as you stand tall you rasp for rattling breaths in your dissatisfied and weary lungs, a mighty fortress with weakened and empty halls, derelict and void. A silent citadel seemingly forsaken, yet blooming with life.

 

Sunrise girl looks into herself and sees death, yet her touch blooms with life. She looks at the effects of her own impartations of light and wonders whether she has scorched the earth beneath her, but she cannot judge for in seeing her path she is blinded to what it truly looks like, mindless of what truly exists beyond her perceptions.

 

Sunrise girl, bathed in light, touched in darkness, look into this mirror, meeting my eyes we assume it’s just another sunrise, another fleeting escape another sense of loss, another moment in another set of arms. It’s not. The eternal sunrise begins tonight, it ends now. We’re the same, the coin’s sides are the illusion, it’s just like us to make our own luck. It’s just like us to make our own way, but we know that already.

 

You call me out into the light, you dance your dance in another direction, but as children of the mind, we can bear to do no other. Two sides of the same thing, one perceives light, the other darkness and both are right, it’s twilight after all.

 

Your eyes meet mine, and I see a mirror, you see a mirror, we look into this moment and perceive an event that makes us tremble. We’re not like this, not anymore. Sunsets and shades of dusk are not our beginnings, not anymore. Cloudfall and storms, we welcome them, but they welcome us no more.

 

This event, it shakes and shapes us. You’re afraid, sunrise girl, afraid that sunrise might go on into everlasting day, into everlasting light, into an Eden you can’t anticipate.

 

Go into that Eden, and don’t knock at the edges of the River Styx anymore.

The Legend of Troy

What is she? A legend. Truth itself beholden in these eyes as searing fire.

Were she to be held accountable for that fey life which is her own, she would as readily burn in the deepest depths of hell

Her eyes, otherworldly, joyful and innocent embraced the world, and in that embrace managed to dash warships against the rocks, swords against each other, men’s hearts against themselves

Her life a ransom for the opening of a new box, a Pandora all her own, simply in the quiver of a lip, in the hint of a smile, in her scent carried for miles on a passing breeze

Sunset and sun bleached bones cannot contain the reality of her, she is denser, her eyes like emerald fires embrace with velvet draped steel, that comforts all the same.

She sings with all of nature, and there is an eternal procession that accompanies her rhythms, she dances within the very space of her standing still, motionless she is all the motion necessary, and every wild hair caught in the wind passing across her smiling face is a reminder of the beauty of that which is untamed.

She drifts between this reality and another, between this life and the place where the everything becomes the every when. She reminds me of time, and space, of the interaction between us, it’s electric, even in silence.

She has ascended to view the battlements and her face is set like a stone against the pursuing captors, and humble foolish Paris does not recognize when Achilles comes. She sets her eyes like fire upon those who would try to catch her.

Diana is her guardian and Artemis her sister.

She is not to be tamed, not to be subdued by mere tokens, her eyes have known bloodshed, insanity and war, it will take something different, something more. What it is, I do not pretend to know.

She has courage, and watches as they dash themselves against the stones and turn themselves upon each other in frantic orgiastic violence. What were she to do should their fates befall her visage?

How were she to return again, without a second Troy to burn?

The Silence

They say Love makes you blind

They don’t know what blindness is

They claim to wander the long road,

They don’t know that it left them long ago

This dervish wanders in clouds of dust, following a path unknown

Into the ocean we shall see the climax at the gates

They say that they have power,

We ignore it and keep our secrets

We know the way, they know the dialogues

We keep the silence, and they believe the have found us

We do not hide our union,

but merely tell them they do not see us

They light a candle at the ocean’s edge and attempt to tell us they see

They are blind, but we are mute

They speak many empty words

Our language is carried on by our silence.

This conversation will never end,

its language is written into the very cells of my body that burst with new life

It is unspoken to the ear

but the words that carry out from my motions

They’re like ocean waves, and your whispers

they carry over my body in echoes

This dance that I dance, it’s part of the secret of our langauge

my feet scratch mysteries into these grains of sand underneath

We are the sand, and the moonlight overhead,

I am an endless ocean

And light pours out from my eyes

The light of the dawn, makes merry meetings

In meeting, these two hearts beat closer

We have a secret union

The hyacinths blush and the lilies whisper across the banks of our river

The Indus and the Ganges have nothing on us now

The pilgrims search out there for this

They are seeking for the outside in their travels

They know the sights

We keep the silence

Interactions

I breathe you in, your fingertips scratch across my lips like hands lifted high in prayer, I see you there, waiting.

Please don’t hold this against me, I feel something changing. Silence is waning, and we are waiting. I feel, your hand in mine again and it all depends, on breathing.

I can’t flourish in this half breath, with this canopy of fading embers being all that remains.

What remains is just a construct, a shadow, forgotten holidays and high holy days.

Break it all down into simplest terms, don’t forsake me now.

Let’s make a few of you and me, but where do we begin?

Don’t deserve me now, let’s get out somewhere different than where we were before.

Don’t tell me you never knew, it’s rising like prayers in our midst, as your hand collides with mine and your love meets my eyes.

Reflecting the endless interlude between presence and absence, i feel the tension of our union

Blessed Mecca, return to me my innocence, my wanderings in your presence, as I cross these streams in the desert, the sands shift underneath my feet, I am searching.

I am drunk with this wine and searching for a mirror, my life is in my eyes and the light behind them streams out like fresh water, whispering across the face of these arid dunes.

Prayers rise up like the ashes of a funeral pyre, calling out, my heart longs for return, my feet take me further, I feel closer, you are closer.

My daggers cross themselves before me like stars in my hands, let these lights in my hands rend the heavens, and tear down the veils.

The coldest night brings the warmest hearts, join together when the coldest man grabs his altar, and spills himself upon it.

Remember my words and echo yourself in their reflection, repetition makes for meditation.

Meet my gaze and drift away if you wish, but don’t say i never tried, don’t deserve me now, don’t desert me now.

It all depends on breathing, and i feel your fingertips scratching prayers once again, into these praying lips.

From the Brook to the Beyond

and as I drifted in the brook the frog passed off to a different branch of the stream, and I beheld a commotion, lifting my eyes i saw birds, of every shape and size in the air, they rattled above me, one swooped low and asked, why do you float there so curiously, between the solid and the sky? Surely the sky is superior to the floatation you are undergoing there friend. Surely it is better to escape the brook altogether, to grow wings and fly away with us.

 

No sir, said I  to him, I am well and aware here, to be in the sky is to forget the lesson of icarus for those who tread where they are not supposed to. All heights have limits, to forget this is to lose sight of what is important. So here I float dear friend, with the air around my fingertips and water logged in my shoes.

 

Surely you must desire to fly though, to ascend to the highest heights, he inquired excitedly.

 

Yes surely all humans do, said I unto him, but I am not so coy as to think myself capable of grasping such a reality as is beyond me without instruction or accommodation.

 

The bird flew off at this looking troubled.

 

Coming upon a bend in the brook i reached out to the deeper waters, and coming upon the gates of hades I stood motionless for a moment before passing in. Coming upon the ferryman there I was asked why it is that I paint, he said surely all things enter into the land of the dead and not one thing shall ever truly remain.

 

I said to the ferryman as he inquired, surely duration is not the only way in which to speak of reality, memory is not forever either, but there are realities which while unspeakable live beyond duration and are outside its limits. Surely there are realities such as the ones we see when we squint and catch glimpses of it behind the world but throughly in the world both this one and the next.

 

Thus they are captured in every generation by every thinking mind and opened eye.

 

At this he smiled, the ferryman did, and laughing a great laugh, he simply shook his head and continued rowing our ferry.

the mystery of grace

I just feel so afraid, today I’m so alone. And no, this is not a poem, this is my life. Hopeful and ever looking forward, i still find myself pausing, regretting, wasting away in the torture of my own possibilities, things that make me happy torture me with their enjoyability, and i seem to only find rest in misery.

 

I hate myself today. I want to strangle myself today, for how vain i feel. like a fucking insolent prick bastard, conceited and self indulgent, working my way into everything  only to spoil it by touching it. I feel like those thigns which i would gladly preach against, hate, vanity, greed, lust, envy.

 

I feel unkind, unlovely and dirty. I have crossed boundaries, been unfaithful to God and myself, and forsaken the person i thought i was. I have lived life to the fullest, emptied my heart on street corners and sold my body for love. Nothing ever changes. New humanity…where the hell do we get these things?

 

forgive my bitter pessimism, if it disturbs you, well, i’m just tired, i can’t seem to catch a breath and I fear that animal which seems to have become me. even as i approach that person i want to be, find happiness, fulfillment, inner peace, these things drive me to insanity. I can’t just allow myself to catch a moment of peace and absorb the meaning of life set before me, no….i have to complicate thigns, make them painful, difficult and selfish, i have to make them real, because any shred of frivolous pleasure would be too much for a holier than thou good lutheran like me. fuck it all.

 

fuck

 

it

 

all.

 

to hell with charades and bitter tears. to hell with these feelings, this guilt. this elephant in the room, this dying agony that tears at me everytime i have a minute to think.

 

I am a person, and i am hurting. i am a person, and for the first time in my life, i am treated as such, unconditionally, without regret, without remorse, without second guessing.

 

fuck you.

 

today, i am treated like a someone, beautiful, accepted, discipled, welcomed, lovely, today i am transformed rather than beat down, and in that acceptance i find my biggest threat. The thing i have always longed for, that unconditional love we’re all chasing after, it’s at my doorstep, it’s knocking, it’s here it’s upon me tearing at my chains, loving me without regrets, and today i shut my bible. Today i feel like God spoke to me, and it hurt worse than having a broom broken over my flesh, it hurt worse than the betrayal of infidelity, it jurt worse than the separation of death, and it welcomed me into a holy foresight, a peace that lies beyond the fringes of the mind, that comes to dwell in the center.

 

can you understand that?

 

I can’t comprehend this thing….this unconditional love thing. we all say we believe it, but go out and slap someone in the face, see if they love you then. go out and steal someone’s car and bank account numbers, see if they wake up to go find you and embrace you. go out and show someone your flaws, and see if they can accept you, tell someone you’re in love with them and that the world beats at a more painful pace when they’re not around, see if they feel the same.

 

they don’t.

 

not usually.

 

can you believe it? I can’t. I’m beyond words for this thing, this love that just accepts and never condemns, that’s fucking sacred. beyond words, spaces, times, this is the ineffable made into experience. God truly encounters humanity in time, because moments are sacred, spaces are transitory. moments are forever.

 

and as I go on exploring this journey that leads me down twists and turns tugging between holiness and absolute fear, loathing and loving, I feel angered, loved to anger by too beneficial a love, too forgiving a grace, too compassionate a mercy. I feel too accepted by something i could never accept back the way it deserves.

 

that’s frustrating as shit. how the heck are you supposed to deal with a realization like that and be sane?

 

I can never love and accept the love that God has given. it’s too overwhelming, too sacred, too present a reality, far more substantial and real than I can be.

 

I feel like a ghost next to it, hollow, and in pain due to the reality around, and looking at the beauty everywhere, I feel naked, cheated, bare, exposed, torn to bits and hatred spews out of me like an ocean, pouring out onto sacred ground, frothing at the mouth i’m trying to taint it, make it more bearable, make it more mundane, and it just refuses to change.

 

It’s still sacred, it just absorbs all my evil, it just cleanses all my dirt. it just transforms all my guilt and makes me scream on the inside because I can’t be anything base near it. It ust changes my filth, transforms my anger, redeems my sludge.

 

I hate it. oh….i have really come to hate that love of God which I also praise so highly. it’s too accepting, it’s shockingly overpowering, even when i wish to do evil and taint myself, i can’t. inescapable.

 

inescapable.

 

tragically holy. the grace of God is tragically holy, so sacred that facing it draws tears of blood from the beholder. It wasn’t God’s decision that Jesus faced in the garden, it was the power of his own forgiveness. The power of a grace so otherworldly it hurts to look at.

 

It’s made me cry today, made me angry, happy, frustrated, solemn, bitter and accepted.

 

How do you face a love so solid it makes you feel ashamed?

 

How can you reject a love so powerful it hurts when it acts as a mirror showing you how insubstantial your heart really is?

 

It hurts to behold, oh it hurts worse than any physical pain I’ve ever experienced, and yet it’s necessary, and in staring directly into it, i feel like my flesh could melt off my bones, and I feel like every cell on my body is bursting with new life.

 

this is just so incomprehensible to me.

 

fuck…

 

it’s a mystery.

Untitled II

Do you believe me? I asked one night, as we drifted through the night air, heavy laden with the tears of our saints. It took a moment to register that feeling, a soft twitch, a quirk in your smile. Weary and tired we approached the old theatre, tried and beaten down by the vagaries of reality. But within, within was really where the treasure was.

You’ve always known how to look within.

So, we descended the steps, hearing our echoes carry across the proscenium, listening to the whispers around us. Covered in rain, I lit up a cigarette and sat beneath the heavy curtains, drawing lines across your skin in whispers of broken revelry. You never join me here anymore.

Your lipstick carried the chorus of a thousand souls that night, breathing out the softest hues of murder and lullabies. Stroking your rain laden hair with my cold fingers, I felt you near me, felt you shiver inside your skin. You looked at me, caught in those eyes I emptied myself to the stars, and told you your dreams.

You told me I was your everything, now just a reflection. That night under the blood red curtains, I sang you a song from another world, that old song, from another life, when we were both cats. In that moment your eyes lit up and looked beyond our theatre, fell into revelry, and absorbed the ecstasy of our commingled voices as you joined me in our endless requiem.

Covered with each other upon the faded stage, upon that scratched wood, worn with love and age and ending memories we found each other, we found a song. I always knew you would find yourself. I was a saint. I was yours that night, and I asked if you believed me. You fell into that endless gaze and rose from my lap to dance before the eagerly awaiting audience of chairs and moths in the flames. You twirled about like that little girl, smiling out in open fields.

You told me to believe in you. You told me that everything was in its place. You asked me to love you like an endless dream, to enter you, an inseparable reflection. You were my voice, and I was your eyes. Justice, used to pass between us like ceaselessly flowing water, freely given. We used to watch the day go by from the roof, waiting for our chance to join the sun in her home under the earth. The moon we knew was our guardian, and the twilight, our sweet abode.

Weary and tired, you fell to your knees and cried out, a panic swept over your face, undying torture, a shriek of terror locked on your face. Suddenly, you no longer cared for beauty. Your knees locked in that bitter position of weeping agony, feeling the breaking of a thousand hearts, hearing the cries of a dying child, you were endlessly above me. I fell to my knees, welcoming the terror, feeling that horror that is our existence I joined you. Weeping hearts and breaking bridges, burning lives all around, and nothing for solace save the sound of our own tears.

You asked me to believe. I stopped hearing the sound of running water.

By The Window

Words float on like photographs
that tremble in the pouring rain,
Echoing my heavy thoughts,
That drift like solemn memories
Endlessly refracting lights, drifting on my tired skin
It echoes like an empty song
That once lit up my face again
Candlelight is my parade,
it drifts through me like falling rain
Across the endless skies

Paint the sky with diamonds
You’re just another chemical in my catalytic converter
I am lost out here, painted on like masquerades
Waiting for the last return
I feel it echo in my universe
Resident entrapment,
And I’m the echoed memory, making stills
In the shadows of the darkroom
Chemicals and fading lights, they capture my breathless soliloquy
As I paint the universe with photographs
I’m not the devil anymore,
I’m not the devil anymore

Any second thoughts?
Of course I love you,
I’m breaking in my drifting pace
Nothing ever develops fast enough
It’s only what’s inside that matters, right?
Hey There,
Turn out the lights, meet me in the darkroom,
Blow out the red lanterns, follow my directions
I see these coordinates laid out, written into my skin,
Engraved into my alibi, like burning commandments
And the autumn leaves turn like pools of blood in twilight on the outside
Forget the bitter winds, and meet me on the darkroom floor

How deep do you really believe?
Does it turn like tidewater?
Breathe in the musty earth around you…
Shake off the dust that’s gathered on your Sunday dress,
take a photograph
Leave the stains on the floor behind
Let words float on,
It’s just dodged the development of something beautiful
Catch my drift,
Hold my hand, and breathe in the endless memories
If you follow the wind,
wait for it to turn up, through kisses shared in the dark,
see it happen like before
set it up, follow my lead love,
follow the wind, forget the cold, give me your hand
I feel the bitter wind again, as words float on like memories