In the Shadow of Man

Complexion in the Early colors' rift,
Burning, arid climax of the present
Hangings; divided by their Numbered Lift,
That by being, created their presence—

The lamb lies calm before the parting stream,
O’er the mead by the thunder ascending,
Thou made Thee of Thine owns temporal scheme,
By that ember now coldly descending—

Is it not by this Sum weave arrived;
Divulging the illusion into being,
Relating the Myth our Shade contrived,
To cure Us from Its irresponsible-sting?

They've taken us away to come of Age,
Severing our Pistil-bonds and haven,
Introducing foul, the toxic pollen Rage;
Dwarfed the Lovers to suckle the Stamen,

We've the Circles of nobler critique;
The Snake to a Rabbit's finer mergence,
And We draw of our mean's antiquity
Within the drift of those Ancient currents;

The tinge of obscurity shaded White—
An ebb and flow of Plastic existence—
Pines the dirty creatures and dingy Night
In their inability for persistence.

The sword that didst cleave Lust from Love,
Smote in twine, the clay-mold: Mother from Child;
Didst stain cheap its Manhood reeling Above,
Castrating all of the Beasts in the Wild!

What is the essence and greatness of God;
Or the vastness and grandeur of Its brand?
What’s the Nature and splendor of a God
But a fraction in the shadow of a Man…

A Toast To The Imbecile

I have diverted syntax in the way of

Drinking; that ‘round the dull’d climax thereof;

Thinking in the way of repetition,

As the Elephants of Inebriation,

Simple-small afloat the daft deluge,

Pining in a refute of discourse;

Justification in the bottle's refuge,

As the ample bite of the Serpent's chord;

We slur obvious ambiguity

With the pleasure of a fiercer burn,

Dexterity in measured levity,

Like Human ash, scorched and weighed for the urn.

Let us go, that we may no longer see,

Cool out of a draft's amber desire;

Within the comp'ny of the Lesser Key,

And Hark the tune of the Stool and the Lyre:

A toast to many a drowned imbecile,

That the Dead may go with such luck,

Out o' Life's tormented spoke and axle,

Let us drink to the comforts o' the muck!

The Hollow Days

The hollow days, merrily unwell,

The day’s dew droplets didn’t shine--

The hollow days, and the hollow days;

This is the purports of the Desert,

The sandy days, no more growing,

The eternal vestiges of Time,

Falling in the empty, glass-shell,

In ways new copulations find--

The hollow days, and the hollow days;

These are the sub-ports in the sewer,

The working Men, no more knowing,

The Fraternal edifice and Shrine;

Then rang a Mountain Bell,

The rays few and ringing climbs—

The hollow days, and the hollow days.

The ragged men and the swelling,

Form that ancient Spider’s webbing,

And this weaves in the Great Defiance;

Brazen-designed, Artesian well,

Unplowed fields dusty in clime,

And these, these are the Hollow Days,

There is turmoil in the Brewer,

The plastic people are melting,

Forgetful in the struggle and Rhyme;

There are no more stories to tell--

The saddened days; lonely time;

And these, these are the Hollow Days:

These are the days we die,

These are the days we die,

These are the days we die,

The Hollow days, and the Holidays;

The living days, and the Hallowed ways

The Hollow days anon the Hollow days:

These are the days we die,

Not by the hand never surmised,

But, by the Stand we did not abide.

The Wayward Drifter

Light purged the sorrowed highway, longing;

High-back indecent, crescent-shape waning,

Sweet nectar poured-fresh, tarnished elixir,

To Men and Gods bow not, Wayward Drifter.

Remorse has set the tempo’s guiding note,

Reprise for the Castles’ drying mote;

Burn slow on the windy Candle’s ember:

All hail the leaving o’ the Wayward Drifter.

Scraggly, reckless, longing, ever-stained;

Retrospectively to Now depraved,

There’s nothing more for nothing gained,

Like the coyote; scavenger of Day.

It is ever night in the Garden of Stone,

Irrefutable accounts chill the Bone,

And on them disgraced by Weather,

He walks undaunted, paths of no others’.

There’s a Ghost ship upon dark water waiting,

With a lone crew ghastly and fading,

Riggins, rudders; flags mangled thither:

Beware the tidings of The Wayward Drifter…

And when afloat on the ocean’s current,

No trustworthiness share’s him in torment;

Awhile in a daze and lurid stupor,

Driftwood transient from upstream wayward.

A Day At The Circus

Oh! What a glorious day at the circus!

Stupendous, Grand, Enchanting, Brilliant!

Oh, the Acts and the Elephants near us,

Trapeze, in the Topaz, and Militant;

I say, and the fire-eaters and the freaks,

In this carnival, so stripped for tickets,

And tips, what ornate displays of Neat;

The jugglers, and the dragon-mouthed midgets,

I saw the Acrobats and the trained monkeys;

Oh! What an illusion so devoid o’ certainty,

And the candle-whip, and tight-rope walkers;

The Clown, in the end, was the Ring-Master!

T’was awesome and incredibly intrinsic,

The appeased sight of this catty linguistic;

From behind this cage, the whip and the Stool,

“Get the lion’s chain ready, you Fool!”

I still have my performance left to do,

I still have my performance left to do…