A suffocating tumultuous stillness,
sticky and black like the tar
of a thousand abortions churned
and ground down into a paste within
my viscous bowels. It fills the
void that once bragged a sea of
sulfurous yellow bile; the magnitude
of my hatred like liquid outrage,
my mind the dam and my life the
town below.
There is no recovery from this, there is No Exit, No Exit which I have yet to read because I sit with my Will in my hand, multi-sized wands, jerking my future, searching for a spasm of paradise upon a virgin white sheet. But it's all a corruption, a parody of my Will, a vehicle come to replace Kings and Knights with suits and ties, the four suits tied to my, oh perhaps, something like loneliness, tied to anguish, tied to my gnashing of teeth in an order indiscernible to eyes not in some way wired to a brain that does not already see what is there, what they are trying to say.
The Gods cry out in thunderous
voices, their mouths above the
heavens, and stamp their feet
below a frozen Hell, abandoned
of all debauchery. And I can not
hear them. I see them screaming,
my Will completely dependant upon
the eye, there are no ears and
my eyes are two salivating mouths
that cry out, "Feed me with
sticky sweet textures, black and
rotting richness, syrup of regrets
like the Blood of Christ the Child-King,
that old Imperial Child-Woman.
Yes her blood is no longer vital
and red, it is ripe, it is finally
ripe to drink!"
My eyes scream this at Gods and
Gods cry out over all creation
that I am born upon the Earth
but I can not hear them, and the
planet slumbers beneath a skin
of viscous oils heated by need,
by desire, by desperation, and
dried by promise. But all the
world is kept warm by unfulfillment.
There are either no arms or all
hands, the most vented through
the four winds, but Shiva has
six arms. Two were hers at birth.
The bowels of a private and maverick
world quake and a guttural whimper
is unheard but the storm clouds
are seen in the distant horizon
by the Children of Men, whose
eyes are as ears, but deaf to
inaudible whispers.
A great beast could rise from
the sea, or it could not, and
if it did it could have no affect
upon the sea, conical and perfect,
like a pyramid rising slowly from
beneath a sea of molasses. There
can be no interruption in a steady
calm but for a seizure, as life
is to death, and dreams are to
sleep.
The beings that inhabit my inner
space are erratic lines that I
Will to be straight under burden
of futility like a child with
a slinky.
And I have become a man who worships
Gods with Names, but does not
believe in them. And now I sit
upon a dirty floor and hold back
the infinite infant sadness I
have walled up behind a full length
mirror I wear as a mask, hoping
it doesn't come apart, hoping
it will, hoping for something,
My God who knows what is asleep
under the sea of a very old Hell,
cold and frozen, and the spirit
of my Child is a moth to a flame,
deciding to see what would happen
if the damn-nation were let loose,
if Hate like a virus could spread
from Mouth-Eyes to virgin cloth
to Ear-Eyes neatly sized by the
cries of the Imperial Child Woman.
