A Friendly Voice

I heard a voice so distant, yet so fair,
Not gathered, but sing’lar beyond compare;
Somewhere, not too far from here, somewhat;
Too staggered, half-spectral, be gone, but here.

What this chant possessed; from my ear distraught,
And I ought not to stop this being-not so wrought,
Now mine own stutter refrained eerily,
How in me this disembodiment has caught.

I’ve never heard such this spoken medley,
“Light from off the darkened foreground!” said he,
“Spite the ruffled gravitas, and vague tweet!”
I’ve ne’er heard such this ravened melody.

T’was but on that solemn day’s lonely street,
What so fair a day this voice to me did greet,
I, but some wayfaring stranger, wholly poor,
Was out o’ my superstitious head to meet.

Th’wind wafted wearily anon before,
Like through ancient trees on a windy shore;
Or the blunderings in a farewell to lust,
Wonders twisting to be heard nevermore.

Ghastly-toned from across Nature’s crust;
That which Time has buried in the rust,
This voice, friendship so long ago forgot,
Yet, on a Frequency playing through Dust.

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!

Prophesy

Shall we not take heed this Visions’ call?

Of the lost sons and the dying tree,

In the missing girl and the Great Fall;

Shall we not take need o’ this Prophesy?

Procure the skin-shed as We stand waiting,

Longing for the truthful bones to return.

The sky ties back and juts the clouds raining,

All the peasants call for the Flood Urn;

“Mother, sweet Mother, what hast in time done

We?” they cry, “Mother, o’ Mother, spare Us

Please!” “We know better than to stand alone.”

Adolescent lint denotes th’sandy crust,

Great psyches reach from Forethought’s collective scheme,

(Diverted Mass shall catch the furious deluge);

A Mystic calls through a reed fence meme,

Peckham’s Prophet hast lent a ported rouge:

Alas! Deliver thyself from Thyself!

Canst thou not lie bawdy-faced to the Muse?

Dance the Trickster’s dance; celebrate in stealth,

The worship of the Noble ones’ Virtues—

Naked as the Maenads in ritual,

The Wine sours into turpentine;

Make thy Sacrifice habitual,

Seraphim gestures have turn’d Serpentine;

By all the Nature of things Above and Below

The maiden flower breathes Life’s last breath;

As a token of the Lord’s false control,

Hast put all Beautiful creatures to Death!

Sick Mind

Peoples now-a-days got a sick mind,

I tell you, and ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen it with the Time?

They steal it,

Don’t share it,

And kill with it;

Ain’t you seen it?

The wrong some,

Ain’t you seen the Lost ones,

Who cain’t do nothin’,

Won’t do nothin’

In Life’s garden,

Don’t grow nothin’?

Ain’t you seen them Vines?

Growin’ on the poor fences,

While the Poor winces,

And the rich man rinses

His Red money,

Payin’ for old Honey

The Bees done thrown out—

Done with it—and bears won’t eat it;

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen the Fruit Orchard

With all the bird words;

Watch the trees grow ripe and rancid,

Droppin’ degradation,

You seen the lot,

Now watch the dead-rot

Of a lost generation.

Ain’t you seen the Wholly mount crumble;

It tumbles down,

And fumbles

From the White Collar,

In the Black dress,

And the Tall Hat;

Ain’t you seen that Mess,

After Mass?

They sacrifice a Peach

On the peak, in a screech

Ain’t you seen the venom;

In the sermon

Command kids to squeeze the Lemon

Ain’t you seen it?

The Blind Peoples

At the gold Steeples,

Grow feeble,

And weaker

In the old beaker,

And they smell;

They smell cheaper?

Ain’t yous seen the Sick Jokes?

The Dumb in the Throne,

The Wise in the Yokes,

And Time don’t float,

But Age smotes,

And ropes, like the gallows trip;

When understanding is bricked

And turned to Shit,

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you seen the world from your own eyes,

Or just their smiles?

Ain’t you seen what be, or is?

What it could be?

What it should be,

Or would be

If we gave Atlas some relief?

Ain’t you seen them War-birds fly,

And you pray and ask Why,

And there ain’t no answer

So you Cry,

And weep for a Why?

But it don’t stop hate;

It won’t stop a Lie…

It’s just a Hope,

A hope you don’t die,

And when God is speechless;

When he’s deaf;

You say He ain’t got no time

For all us Sinners left;

And you think He’s up there

Smilin’ down,

But He ain’t,

He’s in your sick mind,

Tarnishing your crown;

Ain’t you seen it?

Ain’t you never hear a poor man speak,

In the gutter, or the bar;

Or maybe a dead man weep,

For the earlier moon and star.

Perhaps, take it from the Word man’s beak,

So the Long way don’t seem so far:

Any way learnt dupes an ig’nant-way street;

In the End,

You think it’ll all make sense,

You walk the field

And come to the fence,

But the grass ain’t green,

And you need to sleep

Wake-up!

The way back’s too mean.

Ain’t you seen it?

Are you ready for the loamy nap,

Wait, maybe it ain’t time…

Maybe there’s still time

Maybe Now is just out of line...

Or maybe, you just blind.

Peoples now days is a twisted kind,

Peoples now-a-days got a sick, sick mind.

The Shade's Ode

"By what cruel hands smitten thy ghost's o' three?

Doth not, but by silver-lace beams entwine,

As gallant a knight under the Sun's sheen;

Moved by Nightmares, Death-rays and a Cat-Cry.

Mad, mad, mad! By me think it not--a shade--

Here tell, I watch'd and coil'd, made mad by They!

Them, in th'corner o' mine own Masquerade,

Electrified by Pen, steady light and...They!

Acumen, superior to Giants,

Specimens acute by Nature's chagrin,

Call mine own murkiness defiant!

Truth by genius, let the future stand in!

Stand We--Us--to mock what this Light sheds,

Wanton nigh, but to cocoon b'fore worms bed,

And gawk, righteously, at the names these Lights shed,

To crow and mock the leavings of Worm beds,

Conundrum made quaint in valiant scorn,

Away with reflections and longing dower;

Tethered to History's incandescent Shore,

Speak, "Evermore," in Future's ling'ring hour."

Thus, spake The Shade.

Odin's Lament

I stopped, wherein, no foot had trodden black
to seek to know what life had lacked;
that only in my passing here,
there was no turning back;
and perched, now stood a Fountain there,
where too few had opt for thought,
that I to know the joy it fared,
and paid for what I bought:
Half my Sight for a Knowledge sip,
and half did all I know;
Upon my wit increasing strength
only Sorrow did it grow.

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.