Thursday, June 12, 2014

"Milliseconds... Influence Centuries"

“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.”


Our moments crossed; just one coincidence of distances to let the past unfold.
Embossed souls stitched in skin to hold… Alas!
Control, a lack of… maturation. Your emotive passion
paces hastily away from each decision. Please, just listen:

Words are meaning transposed through mind and purpose.
Certainty will stand, bold; to find the surface and reach
is our defining hope. A sign of weakness resides
within failed interpretive means.
Pervasive abuses;
sensations (in)evading truths; discerned and determined to be,
or not, pieces of strong willed ignorance and illusion released
as camouflaged belief; a rigid form to spill poisoned lore;

But the will is just as silly and awkward as your hatred is.
Profundity is just a bludgeoning of softened craniums.
Truncheon-tropes lunging with our brethren through the breach,
a game of squares where Kings manipulate the stupid sheep.
Shaking spears at ash wood, hoping to puncture souls,
only to touch frozen hearts blown apart like glass should.
Half shattered fragments of vanity scattered amongst the foes,
for necklaces they take a dull blade and cut their toes
off… imagine walking to Hades with your balance thrown

"When it comes to atoms, language can be used only as in poetry. The poet, too, is not nearly so concerned with describing facts as with creating images."

…influence centuries.

Our moments crossed; just another incident where images are packed and sold.
These lost souls are pitched in ditches though, (she laughed!).
A lack of urgency: it seems hot despite this blasted snow.
A triage surgeon bleeds, and yet he has to suture falling futures.
Breathing often loses to the choice of Fortune’s axle, though.
So talk… to woo her move her closer to your patched surface,
but don’t expect her to connect just because your network of nerves
is covered by a feeling-shell(s) often bloody intentions to Hell.
Muddy boots tied much too loosely for you, chief.
Remember when she used to laugh because you acted so
lost, as if clouds of stalking stupors gestured toward that Well
of empty Being?
But muddy boots are what you’re used to seeing
sticking out from trenches, seething embers beneath those dead defeated.

Dried and lied to, and you knew as much in retrospect.
So don’t expect the rabble to ever capture your brush’s sentences.
Your canvas is ambition. Their planet is sand lifted
from shores of assurance withered away.
But don’t listen, dismay is their gift and after all…
they handpicked it.

For him the epilogue's a demi-god.
Between reality and Heaven's troughs, extended bodies
are buried deeper than any. Inner/Outer.
Intellect and arm-leg, they wished the phallus emblematic.
They lifted language from the vanquished and conquered.
And rather than meet the challenge with pen or passion,
we drank, then sank with the docks.
Imagine six hundred immobile ships anchored to destiny.
Ropes woven with thought-threads, painted by entropy.

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