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!

Folk Toys

Explosions erupt my eye’s illusions—

A reenactment faces false stupors;

Faring music distant, betwixt commotion,

Swooned by Calamity’s folk-y torpor;

Marooned from life’s screaming mortality;

The Sky reeled out-way, slightly, utter so;

Placed beyond Complexity’s eternal vitality,

In the Bull Roar and Straw-horn’s privy note;

Foreign roots defame the native tongues,

With scents from olden fires cooking,

Here stood Tradition’s Pillar ever long,

Retracing what Youth finds too forgetting;

Soon the days of old again pass and fade,

And leave within us all the Folk-toys of Age.