Category Archives: poetry

Metropolis

vlcsnap-2011-05-27-18h10m48s192

i am fucking

empty

.

i wish i were a Satanist princess

dancing beyond the masses

like Robot Maria of the Black and White City

.

Except this

time

It’s the other way round

The Flesh-

Blood- and Soul-

trip

ple god

dess

-First Mother-

winding finally

together

into flesh and blood and soul

fluid darkness arcing

Body

.

Now-

mechanistic mothers of ideal

shuffle

wide rolling eyes detached from smiles

in circle kitchens

herding

swarms of children into the lines of graves

as

the Dollar-Junta overlords implore

in

apparent preparation

for…

.

Mother of Humans

Monster

in their eyes or not

is and lives

her

Shape

with every drop of her moving

monstrous

Real

 

 

And drops the mic.

.

 

Ave

Maria.

Maria

Futura.

I must be a Satanist now.

lady-gaga-pepsi-zero-sugar-super-bowl-li-halftime-show

Advertisements

End of the Endless

0425162126h

My father died on Monday. He was buried on Friday. He had an aggressive cancer that he left untreated because “God told him” that he could heal it himself by taking extra Vitamin C and by giving himself enemas with coffee.

His dad had a similar cancer a few years ago.  He had a doctor advise him on treatment, instead of God. Grandpa is alive and cancer free to this day.

One time, before he got so bad, I argued with dad about his decision. The books and articles “God was using” to direct his treatment sounded distinctly like conspiracy theories to me. The conversation ended when he told me I was making him think he was crazy and roared at me to GET OUT.

Which I did.

I was very angry.

I was in the process of moving out already. Not because I had enough money.  I just couldn’t stand being home anymore. It was too crazy making.

Towards the end, when it was clear that he was going to die, he wept pretty frequently. About even little things. It’s possible the tumor was growing into his brain. It had started in his throat, after all. One day he wept and told me he was so sorry he had yelled at me- that day when we argued.

I was sad too. I didn’t give a flying fuck that he had yelled.

The evening after his death I went to see my family. The front room, where he had been all day every day for the past week, hallucinating and begging to be allowed to get up, had been cleaned.

The furniture had been brought back in. The hospital bed had disappeared.

The spring peeper frogs were singing in the ditches. A night wind was flowing through the fields around the house. Someone had set a jar of lilacs on the dresser. Words and phrases from a poem were eddying in the back of my head, but I couldn’t recall them all or fit them together.

The dresser is an antique. I believe it came from his mother. I never knew her. She died in a car wreck when my dad was- 19? Hit by a drunk driver.

He was angry at his dad about something then and moved out.

Dad was born in March- like me. His mother died in May.

The drunk died in the wreck.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers…
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                      Frisch weht der Wind
                      Der Heimat zu
                      Mein Irisch Kind,
                      Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

-T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland, The Burial of the Dead

The Garden and the Creature: Clay

He took a lump of clay, once

He rolled it in his hands

poked and twisted

He showed you.

this was called ‘a shape’

He pointed out on you

it has a leg, you have a leg

it has a leg, you have a leg

it has a joint, you have a joint

it has a head, you have a head

 

It’s like me!

 

Yes. Just exactly like you!

 

You made it!

 

Yes. Just like I made you.

 

You looked around, suspicious.

 

What else did you make?

 

Everything.

 

(He surely knows everything. He’s answered every question. The Serpent asks you questions, but he never tells you. Not like He does.)

(He’s kneeling to talk to you- like grownups do when you’re a baby and it’s so important)

 

His eyes are shining.

 

That’s right. Only I know everything. That’s why you have to do what I tell you. Only I can keep you safe. Hidden from… monsters. And lions!

If you disobey me, little one, it will make me sad. Very sad. Because you’ll die.

 

What’s ‘die’?

 

This.

 

The clay crumpled.

Spurted through His fingers as He closed His hand.

Enter Title Here or Escape While You Can Still Get Out

This is the moment. This is my knuckles getting white on the wheel.  This is one of the bad (good?) spells. The reason I never bothered with drugs. Never felt the need of them. This so much more incredibly unimportant than the fluid tide of meaning drowning my brain would make it out to be. This is geese halting traffic as they cross the street, looking this way and that and honking like confused tourists.

They are tourists, of course.  Tourists and time travelers. They winged their way here from a different age of the earth, where light was yellower and more primal and the jewel eyes of inhabitants mirrored the sun without shattering it into names.  Or perhaps they aren’t tourists so much as refugees.  A white smear of nameless spread across the namelessness and then- then they found themselves running through time and space and evolution, desperately fighting for their lives. They donned disguises that the dead would be envious of- feathered and masked. Not saurians anymore but nobles, still.

There was no asphalt in the world they came from, that world that perished.  No rocks that purred and moved and stopped seemingly at will.  The chemical perfumes may be familiar, the trace stenches of a death wider than the sea, but other than that, they aren’t sure where they are now.

Their finery is ridiculous here. Mask doesn’t conceal in the fronds and cool wet voices of the swamps that were their hidden path to the new land. They are in the new land. Their capes of wings are folded around them.

The two on the road- a couple- have the sound of squabble in their voices. They call to the two waddling parallel in the grass and those two call back. The four of them moving together, gawking at the sights and gabbling like any of mildly frustrated party of four.

I don’t know their language. It might as well be geese Hebrew. I am too young and ignorant by far to understand this band of survivors.

I stare in awe, excused and forgiven by the living rocks behind mine. Ensconced in silence, bobbing in mirrors, perhaps they feel this awe too.  Pity masquerading as scorn and scorn dressed in urgency’s clothes are both drowned in the sea of our mutual alienation.

Behind me, alien, do they feel something moving in them? Do they name the sun the way I do? Do they call it love? But all it is is the sun, isn’t it?

Woven, flowing, in a thousand channels of blood and of the mind’s nervous fires.

The time travelers are moving.  The ground has shifted under their feet and worlds have bloomed and died in time lapse films that they paddle through and it’s still shifting.

I don’t know. I don’t know how they do it.  Will I and mine walk with them?  Will we be companions in the up and coming world? Strangers together in the place called strange-to-us?  Or will they leave us behind- squabbling as they waddle into the portal of the future- as we look, wracked with coughing, after them- maybe even possessed of the presence of mind to wave goodbye. Lonely now forever and still silent to each other in the land of the past- that country of stone and darkness that isn’t night.

I and mine.  Riddled with words like worms in the world’s only fermenting apple.  The words build themselves around us, through us, structures flooding out from the entrances to our skins, shaping the world around us at our desire. Wizard power. Made of less than seafoam, less than starlight, less than apple blossoms.

Less than the pipe that the arrow in the picture doesn’t point to.

Is the weightless name of the sun too heavy for swimmer to carry?

These swimmers paddled through namelessness to nameless.  The water rolling in beads off their feathers.  It couldn’t get in.

Must a wet creature such as me see the future from the crest of my own wave- before the burden that made the wave drags me down to drown in a seafloor death.

But the two make their way onto grass. The purr beneath my feet rolls me motionless forward. I move between the double couple. One spreads his cape of feathers in a challenge that greets me. The melodramatic swirl of the air.

They seem to open something for me.  Or- a puppet of the powers that animated me in the first place- perhaps I charm, unseeing, the opening into being.

A circle woven of the curling airs they have supplied me.

Perhaps the sun is, always, and is no more than that.  Or if all this is is the sun, running in a thousand veins, perhaps not.  Perhaps the sun is delighted by her mirror.

Perhaps she will go on polishing. Till, one day, even she can see her image.

leaves

Who told you you were naked?

 

No one told you.

In a single strange moment,

the colored moving world welled up

into the colored moving world

And was.

 

trees and clouds

stones and water

creatures flashing

the chatter and songs

and behemoth curiously lifts his head

and you are

and you’re here

and it’s now.

Your eyes turn to the other eyes

and they’re shining too.

It’s both of you, now, here, together,

trembling with this greatness.

In the heat of the day, a little wind runs through.

Only the leaves shiver

and the two of you.

Your eyes meet and

you both laugh again.

It’s so much- all at once.

 

Who told you?

The voice is colder.

The words you would have to invent to say

sink back down your throat

falling back into the heart they almost came from.

The leaves you wove tear and fall and

you have to stand there-

this is naked-

both of you naked

and him waiting.

From deep in the darkening sky

a little wind runs around you all.

It’s cold- so cold.

To be this way.

 

the fall

Do you delight in our weakness, Father?

Does it make you perfect?

Is it what draws your attention

Down, out of the vast and infinite

sorrow where your heart lives-

clouded like a newborn star?

Does it assuage you, for a moment,

to trip us with nothing and trigger

shocked eyes

muddy knees and hands?

Hidden

Hiding in the trees.

Where are you?

calls out One who already knows everything.

Your breath slows, chokes in your throat.

He’s smirking?

Where are you?

He’s enjoying the game.

Enjoying the heartbeat He must know

is knocking against your ribs-

as your terror convulses into purity-

as He comes near.

But then He veers off.

Perfect fear can cast out everything

whether its piss or hope  that holds you back.  And

your newly clean mind understands.

He’ll keep coming closer

circling,

At last He’ll let himself find you and stare down, gloating,

as you crescendo

and then He’ll begin.

 

As if the sky were made of giants

walking

through the deep blue sea-

 

Your limbs move-

soft as ropes of clay-

and you stumble out ot the brambles .

 

The game is over

and He hasn’t won.

 

 

 

The House of Water

The Father had died.

The Mother was waxing.

The moon had come

at night

and glowered.

The bones moved over the ocean,

the wake rising ’round them,

the wake moving over the waters,

following the Father’s house.

 

The Father had died.

The Mother was moving,

gathering strength,

gathering voices

gathering against her children,

the gods.