Nemesis

I who walk in dark of cloud and dust
prosper in the end times. All the world
has crumbled and the road of this decay
is littered with the corpses and the dogs
where the sky has gone to black and ruin.

I walk alone. I wield the final flame,
my staff a spell of fire. See my eyes
are dark with gift and power of persuasion.
My face is hidden by the hood I wear.
My voice destroys the souls of all I pass.
I raise my hand and part this sea of graves.

I am the stranger of the final days.
I am the child of the weirding times
and anyone alive who sees my face
will breathe no more. Mine is superior state
of mind, superior purpose and the will
to conquer once again the conquered world.
For I am Nemesis, dark queen of woe.

Paralipsis

Today we will not discuss
this thing called life.
Today we will sing of the sun.

Today we will avoid the subject of Pound
while singing the sun
Pound spoke of.

It is good to feel the sun on our faces.
When the war of wits is over
we will avoid the subject of Thomas
and bask in the birthlight singing
for the stepping out.

Today we will set aside
the dust and page.
We will deliver Pound and Thomas
to the earth
where the sun does not shine,
only dust.

We will step into the open air
and feel the sun on our faces
while singing sunsongs
for the Pound and Thomas
of that life which sings.

- 5/10/2012

Life Is Like A Junkyard

Hey great prognosticator of dreams
show us the wreckage where hearts are heaped
in rusty piles beneath a mid-day sun,
flies buzzing around the wrecked fenders of our faces
and the broken headlights of soul-burned eyes.

Show us the unending minute
of a lifetime's loss
preserved here in the fitful far flung slumber
that resembles wakefulness
the way garbage looks like
the piles of memory and pain that gather
like junk in the heart's long, slow stench,
mere windless rot in dreamtime
with the sun still shining.

-5/9/2012

The Dreams Of The Dead

Last night I dreamed the dreams of the dead
with wall of dust and gray covered castles:
In a world of waste and white
where no color fell
the moon alone was red
and the moon burned bones white.

This is the stillsong that hums its tune
in the dark, turning corners of Gehenna.
This is the clock that ticks undying time
on its handless face.
This is the human face ripped savagely free
and hung from the pole like a flag of truce
in the still, wet air.
This is the place
where love and light have gone to die
and dreams are born
crawling from the skull
like a murder of maggots.

-- 5/9/2012