Skull

The boot on the back of my head
Has scraped me across the pavement and
Left traces of flesh and cartilage.

How horrible it is to walk around
With passerby gawking at
My empty sockets and
Lipless grin.

Certainty of Idle Fingers

The slate is clear, the words unspoken,
the brush lay calm, the clay unbroken.
No great work to sate ambition
forms free of labor or volition.

Naught is here but paper’s promise,
wrought in absence, base and lawless.
The brush lifts briefly, stops and lingers,
then drifts away on idle fingers.

What critique can now take purchase –
where no words dwell – and quell no purpose?
What thin crack can thwart protections,
of vaporous art, of void perfections?

The stage sits dark, the choir scattered,
the pianos silent, the curtains tattered.
Yet we remain, unawed, unblamed,
in squalid silence, none acclaimed.

Eruption

Politicians said it would never happen, as did the newsmen; talking heads,
Men and women whose only worth was opinion, yet based their judgements
On naught but a fleeting frailty held in some unknown chamber of the heart.
Scientists knew, or at least theorized, postulated infinitely while the public sat,
Both unaware of the urgency of their work – No conclusion was reached,
Yet on the sixth day of the sixth month, the world was bathed in fire.
A slumbering giant awoke in the heart of America, roaring its ashen fury,
Casting boulders and cinder into the sky, souring the azure expanse to ash,
Swiftly ending all hope for peace and prosperity, awakening the American Dream
To the harsh reality of endless suffering.

For thirty years darkness fell from the clouds, sizzling streaks of soot that burned
And buried all of humanity’s work beneath the thickness of Hell, and Heaven
Itself seemed to have abandoned the lowly maggots that scraped and clawed
Their paths through interminable embers and darkness undreamed of.

Yet, with time, the light returned to Man, and with it the watchful eye of God
Returned to gaze deeply upon His reflection – Withered and ragged men,
Slaughtering and raping, pillaging and thieving, the last survivors of an ashen age,
Travelling in bands, hunting those less than themselves, feasting on the rare bounties
Of that barren desert – Less man than beast, devouring those too frail, too moral,
Too kind, too brave to survive Hell. The rock and soot forbade all growth,
Yet where life flourished, Man swarmed – bringing fire and death until all
Was as barren and cold as Man’s own heart.

Visitor on the Solstice

On a stormy Autumn’s ending as I nosed through tomes pretending
That the ceaseless crackling towards me no ill will bore;
Suddenly there was a bursting as of heaven and hell thirsting –
Thirsting for the spirit dwelling in the skin I wore.
Eerily the thunders’ bleating brought to mind a sinner’s pleading
For respite from demon’s beatings in those pits I’ve dreamt afore.
“You will not have me;” I wept meekly, “For my sins are not completely
Damning, no, I will not cross that devil’s door.
I shall seek my own exemption; I will have divine redemption;
For no fiend can hold preemption on the soul within my core!” Continue reading “Visitor on the Solstice”

The Prince of Parties

There was a time, before I slipped the shackle of common sanity, when I was a biology student toiling in the dusty subterranean laboratories of Hexford University, back in the decade that now bears the outright odorous appellation ‘The Naughty Aughties.’ Hexford was a small school that sprouted nearly overnight in the decay of another less notable public university, though some curse must have lingered in the campus’s bones as the school lay again abandoned by the end of that year. In those days, I was possessed of an uncertain timidity typical of the unproven scholar and spent the majority of my time secluded in the study of various cultivars. I am not ashamed by the admission that a solitary digit could number my friendships in that place, and how our companionship was tenuous at best. Continue reading “The Prince of Parties”

Promise of Spring

It was near the cusp of Spring, yet Spring never arrived
As Winter’s pallid hands choked firmly ‘round the Sun,
The Moon and all the unfathomable creatures, cursed,
Forever formless, dwelling far beyond the withering stars.
Dull were the skies, lacking clouds or the joy of birds,
As were barren fields famished for any sign of growth,
And the seas grew restless, swallowing the pride
Of Man in greedy gulps, dragging souls and stonework
Down, down to lay forever with listless ships and
Unknown leviathans chained in lightless prisons.

Man grew restless with the stretching gloom,
As eternal Winter stirred misery in the hearts of all;
Who sought an end to this unnatural nature,
Who sought to right the course of this steady cycle-
Birth and death, renewal and desolation, all too vast,
Too universal for Man to see the necessity of this Winter-
And so they fought, as Man always has, fought against nature,
Fought to hang on as the light died, as the Sun snuffed itself out,
As the mighty oaks hollowed and fell, as seeds lay dormant,
Eternally locked in their shells, never to see the coming Spring –
And atrophy was the nature of all that still dwelled.

So the world fell to darkness, pierced only by flickering lights,
The faint torch of Man, powered by the rot of reptilian eons –
And dim were the cities, where crowds thronged and writhed,
Setting upon the world as starving wolves on sheepless folds;
Here was Man, formless mounds of gaunt mouths gnawing,
Tearing, gnashing at all that yet lived, consuming ferocious beasts
And docile creatures of all breeds – lank meat chewed by lank jaws.
Soon the lights of Man stuttered, then failed- inviting the dark
And chill of Winter back into the hearts of furtive survivors.

Man still fought against the darkness- setting alight their greatest works:
Libraries, the treasury of all man’s knowledge and worth;
The hubs of learning and culture; monuments to great men,
And palaces of long-dead kings; all were kindling, all were sacrificed
For a glimpse of warmth and light in a world with neither.

As the last flame settled from ember to ash, a song was heard
From beyond the stars- not the blast of trumpets heralding Horsemen,
But weirdly wistful wailing; angelic yet distorted, the death-knell of the cosmos,
Carrying creatures that laid dreaming before the stars coalesced,
And for them it was Spring; a Spring unlit by the ray of any stagnant Sun.