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they sang
they sang a solitary prayer
once, and it was never,
like the light the cats reflect,
refractive backs, the day
brakes on them broken
as mourning cracks
the slovenly hills
have forgiven us
our several resurrections
through figurative intentional
inexistences; and yet.
pallid face of mainly day
retention tends
to forget
don't need a name
i don't want a name to wear
like a coat in those awesome
cold loneliness, life we find
in nobody's void
we may not even lay claim to,
our non-being
i don't want all this worthless
hopeless security. the night
will strip it from you anyway
as you lie tucked up in nothing
rehearsing your unscented coffin,
your inexpensive coffin
i don't need a name
or a god, i certainly don't want
any resurrection, just a comfy
cancer to crack us
from our Humpty-Dumpty
shells. i don't need
a name or a god
but i quite like the void
and its cheesy meaningless
smell. i quite like coffins
and cancer and devils and
hell
death in his grave
death in his grizzly grave waiting
is cozy Cadaver. the strange scars on his face
scare nobody. they deface nothing but
the loving skull - weird weighty gaze
of a child avoiding
the void. whispering his hearing
prayers to the listening nothingness
there
so, hail the unevokable inevitable nothing
that edits lives already
in the cradle, the baby
that fears his ground's
displacement - the blanket we pull
from under his sinful
living.
and such will come to us
with time and untidy
luck. the crippling
weight of the waiting coffin -
we're so fucked
those who reached
those who reached
to grope heaven with clumsy
fingers, they were just pissy
pools of words, as we are,
they were the fleshy sediment
of discourse, growing solid
as a dream, as a reasoned
meaning, as a dead man's
belief, a memory of mourning
and a forgotten need, the blood
and the vein that bleeds
my body walks
my body walks with the beast within it
never sleeping, brutal heart torn
mourning,
and there are pools of nightmare
there, the drying leavings of discourse
she has forgotten in me, words
wielding their whorish caring
like swords; the greasy abortion
thought on heaven's naked plate
is everywhere and nowhere, the tidy
void rapt in the impossibility
of simultaneity, callow as any
regulative idea - that there are words
and worlds and times
we share
who cares?
more things i hate
the town
towers over us
like a murderer or a child-
molester over us, its
victims, its worthless grace
blesses us seldom with loneliness
we long for sometimes
its life is madness and man
a ball in a painful pinball
machine, his balls in the
vice of necessity and gainful
days employed in the gay
slavery of nothing, a job is
this, just the meaningless
grind sucking blood from stones,
blood from your own bones
money should be plucked
from the pavement magic
as a mushroom, like love
and its chance encounters
that twitch us like cripples
when spleen recedes
for a few minutes - it's what we do
instead of living
the storied ghouls
the
dog-faced ghouls have sow’s bellies and a thousand tousled teats we suck
dreams from tonight a ghoul is like a dream and marauder they suck
marrow from our hollowing skeletons skulled with the love that projects
us home to the timely coffin snack-bar for gods and devils and the
ghoulish demons who feed evil as they feed our unseemly dreams
dream-evil around the town love is coming down it runs rushing down the
coffin’s lid that hid us. still
this body, this prison
and we
simmer in these strait confines
these meaty
manacles
pinned to
finitude between these ribs
in this
hormonal hell of glandular lusts
and the
exigencies of feeding, need,
and
restless memory, we flicker our
seconds are
aeons away from heaven,
and yet we
choose this, the willful child’s
suicide is
no one’s choice, but the beating
heart
beating faster, the hair shirt daily
that saves
us our deliverance
that speaks
well of the lack we are
and their
past, the departed
and we
would touch the Other
though he
is always there
and dresses
thus in flesh for us
he choose
to share the carrion
that saved
us, the ultimate Other
father and
brother, judge and
lover
lusting like sparrows
lust
buffets us like sparrows
torn by our
windowing hormones,
moaning
like the whores we are,
yet still
the stars shine on us
the
infinite mercy they borrow
from her,
most potent ever
blessing
memory and future
actuality,
for though stars fall like
a sky’s
castration and death
is ever
upon us, mercy and love
are endless
and birds not forgotten
but their
fall noticed, and death but
a change,
so children pray,
the hope
that remains, unstained,
unchanged
its chain, blesses
us and
suffering us
is love
enough for a death
and a
heaven forever
just the
moment we are,
under this
madness,
under all
the feckless stars,
warm like
kittens in a father’s
failing
heart
when words,
when worlds, fall
apart
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