Tuesday, August 31, 2010

039: Hours passed in exile

Again and again, faces dance,
music helps, still condemns,
visible husk gets banned, inject
the serum of empty days, cutting blade,
the soft fabric of todays, elastic
against a hungry vortex,
a faint eye, library of pain on paper,
selfcollapsed beneath its weight,
a volcanic cenotaph stands
where the crowning jewel
should be.

Waiting hours, days and seasons,
waiting for the snow to flee,
for gold to enter the cathode sky,
to wish upon an icy star
for an earthly paradise,
sweating to hold handfuls of utopia
to build a structure
that renders tomorrow benign,
pointless within the absence
of answers, a celebration
to the fall of the word.

[title borrowed from Dark Tranquillity's eponymous song]

Thursday, August 19, 2010

038: For the second time

Last night I watched again
my own stake
in slow motion blaze
from the bottomless bog,
then drifting further
on the polished onyx,
away from clouds of flesh,
albatross air cleans the sweat.

Using crash logs
as ocean maps
to the chapterhouse of failures,
collections in agony
and the guillotine blade drenched
in azure, from the veins
of the invisible,
a saline aftertaste.

I scrawled with incisors
and lifeblood from the cavity
in the heart of everything,
the precision of creation,
ironcast cybernetic
like glacier lakes,
with nitrogen rage
beneath the mantle.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

037: Life in the shallows

In the shallows, writhing,
in the shade of concrete reefs,
fish colonies migrate
in clockwork cycles,
dead hand precision
beneath uncaring gaze,
salty, liquid today,
the dance of anemones reflects
the demons' tar,
the dark side of mirrors.

Tomorrow, the dawn of triumph
will take us all away
into the blue,
yet the flame's still unconsummed
the epic of my pitch,
Fish swirl around in steel tornadoes,
but I cannot give birth
to so needed new words
for a cardiac language.

Pearl fishers from the other side
observe seconds
of these fleeting lives,
another fold
in the same veil;
and the doused embers are voiceless
as lightning sparks run
through Ranvier nodes,
on highways of grey,
never far enough.

Words fail again
to redeem the mute,
before the reach of dreams,
the thrust of exile, when gills unbreathe,
so I'll paint the blue
with burning oil
and elect silence
as my new tongue;
as long as these fibers pump and grind
I know I'll never die.