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Three Hallelujahs I
I came out to the sacred field
To sing, to bathe there in the fountain,
Splayed out among the flowers,
I'd hope we'd lie here for a while
Sipping poisons of our fate,
This cruel fate.
We'd lie awake in the clearing, there,
While I'd look into your
Crucified, edified here,
Laid out as skins in a cold lime bath,
Awaiting the tanner's practiced knife.
But deadwood chokes and smothers clean
To starve us whole, to move in now,
In sense of the sport, we move in to kill
Burning their skies with radiant smiles
As we ourselves fall in as to lie,
With starlight shining, shining bright
Lying in wait for the river to dry
Running in circles
To the rhythm of a heartbeat.
And I too would write you
A neon bible of yellow, pink and gold
For I too could build you
a neon dais in this place of stars.
No light could touch us now,
Seeping in by the holes in our heads,
Creeping in like the evening fog.
But me, amour, as fair a
untitledWasting away at the middle,
In the middle class rut
At a second rate cut
Victims plenty to this Third world disease,
The Third World Diet,
Prescribed to us there in charnel houses
And smoke dried inns-
There like sunlight to a broken column
We write our lines to the doomsday song.
untitledPush me out to sea, tied as an anchor,
Ship to ship to sea, joyous, as you'd see.
But those on shore, your gift magnetic
Dictate facts, words, made like irons
To drown you.
Words like irons, wrapping chains
Of who and what or was
Glossing over this very human lens,
The experience, universal and collective here
Doomed to end there, huddled
Like fated masses
At the edge of these wretched shores.
Buried out at sea, in a river, by the ditch,
As locusts fill these decrepit lungs,
We'd burst with wings into those nuclear skies
Beyond our padded codas, cells,
To write, write, write and rewrite
Those wretched parts of ourselves
Like a bitter fire, passed down to those colorblind,
Sorted eyes. We'd rewrite our lives here
And embrace our non-issue now
And married, buried there, live like kings
Under a golden Minneapolis sky.
untitledCheap soap, cheap girls,
Strung out there against a bathroom stall.
Swill cheap wine by the carpark fence,
Ruminating on judgments there
As moonlight sifts through the gloam
Of evening, settled.
Noon here offers a stiff breeze,
Stiff drinks, at the crosswalk there,
Washington and 19th,
A musician cries out:
"Mea culpa, mea culpa,
Mea maxima culpa."
But all this is fiction too,
While daylight offers no respite-
Passersby fling change at him or spit,
A patchy gray beard, a scent of filth
And passersby, apathetic,
Play darks against reds and blues and whites
There, on Washington and 19th.
Far from here, in Italian fields,
In Bruges, in rouge,
We eye them like you,
Pythons in heat in the steel, concrete jungle
There, cathedrals to our pride,
Dreamers of what dreams may come,
Of Ebens and Nitzs,
Kibbles and bits,
Singing iambic to the language of blood.
untitledThis is my sole release,
A sweet relapse into my own
Sweet myopic release
Into an infinite span,
An infinite brand of our own devices.
Nesting in a bed of poppies
On the sunny banks of the Rhine,
I shed my skin in quick form,
Slipping out of my penny loafers
To wade into Lethe:
Shedding my skin in rhythm to the tide,
I slip back under the current
Leaving words behind to fry.
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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