The Wetness Of The Rain

Gone are the seas of daffodils.
Gone the sunny green, the plains.
Gone are the green gored hilly hills
And gone the blue sea's blurry stains.

Gone everything, the curtain drawn,
The dream of yesterday's fond fears
Abruptly brought to what's beyond
The final "triumph" of our years.

All is dark where once was hue
And wet with slime, the years' long trace,
The stones they bare mute witness to
The death of this burned rock in space

And though they did not see the fall
And though they can not voice our pain
They will never disregard at all
The sad, still wetness of the rain.

Acts IV (Murder)

(Wherein the pools of sperm coagulate on the haunted sheets of time's forgotten coital horror where the blood is dry and already dripping in the slow and steady clothesline wind of yesterday's sepia landscape turning like a dread and black and white bad deed)

The mother of Ted Bundy
Never gave birth to a monster.
She gave birth
To the same shimmery ball of light
To which all mothers lay claim
And love until the day they die.

No one wants to be what they are.
No one wants to be the person
Who should never have existed.

Even Hitler needed someone
Before he came of age.
Even murder has a mother.
Even murder owes its existence
To some other thing.
Even evil itself
Owes its existence
To some intrinsic greater good.

This is how
The myth of Satan was born.
This is the genesis of evil.
This is how
We view ourselves
On the mirror of time
And writhe.
This is how we scream.

Ten thousand juggalos
In a stone cavern
Stitching the arms
Of five thousand flesh golems
Simply can not be wrong.

To give birth is the thing
That destroys us
And sustains us
Simultaneously.

We are the kittens that mew
For just one more bowl of blood.

This is the miracle of life
That the myth of Satan
Was meant to teach us.
This is the blade
That was told to tear
The imperfect suture
Of mending.

It's no wonder
We still can't get past it.
It's too much a part
Of what we were
To begin with.

Why did Ted Bundy
Murder a dorm room?
The answer is in our flesh.
Why did he drive
A Volkswagen?
The answer is in our bones.
Why did he exist?
Because we refused to die
And that is the truth
that dooms us.

Ten thousand juggalos
Can not stitch that carcass together.
They can only do
What they have always done.
They can only
Make a murderous pantomime
Of the human doll,
The human dance,
Born of flesh,
Born of blood,
Born of bone
And born of the thing
That we wish had never been.
They can only do
What they've always done
Casting their eyes,
Stitched and painted shut,
To the fire lit cavern ceilings
Of the room
They can never leave,
Where the monsters dwell,
Where damned they are condemned
To see themselves
In the shadows
From the corners of their eyes
From which
Only the mothers
Refuse to turn away
Where the little ones
Scurry away
And tell the tale
That should never have been told
If not for its first,
Its final
And its absolute
Necessity.