December's Whore

Today's winter sun is a brazen whore,

Taunting hungry, unloved skin, with her burnt sanguine glow

She's the look about her, that she might offer you more

As her distant gaze of longing grows

Aching at the very bones for radiant days

The skies roar with her fervoured fury but

December's sun is a wretched tease

She offers no warmth within her rages,

While she waltzes rubicundity

Leaves starve from her lacking,

Leaning, and giving from their veins

From December's whore find themselves blackened

Above lurid city outlines, lays herself to rest

Every footstep buries her wake's destruction

Sucking up the smoking bellows,

To turn their waste,

To tormented pleas of comfort

Useful only in torture, and madness,

All enraged souls that have been bought,

Bleating with open beaks,

To a mother's guilt of young's starvation

Who might watch their feathers loosen

Become quiet, resigned,

Meek

December's whore, is my maddening mistress

Distressing the heart with slow beats of calm,

She dances her rapture and beauty before me,

But she offers no warmth in her arms

In her embrace

She offers nothing

O, Cryer of Restless Passion!

On the hill where I was born, towers a cross of molten pleasure. From the well of such abandon, measured souls of discontent against the very same pretence, to form a circle; a hole. An onslaught of insight into raging underworlds, where black is right and rich is more; the pox, lays not upon the skin of the pore, but sewn in seedless batches of infertility – amongst those, who in the ancient wake of Sodom’s prerogative, not only closed their eyes and chose to ignore, but showed no bounds to their metrical attraction. An empire was built back then, on this social interaction based on coins, on sex – on all things we now choose to possess – and possessed, we are. By the spectres that might own our bodies. By the buildings tall, that might own our hearts. By eternal gluttony, for which there is no beneficiary, yet a myriad of descendants, growing vastly rotund for the throat spilling-passion of grotesque, barren consumption.
Let the skies fade, for now, let the clouds brighten days without regret of rain – until the acid comes pouring and pouring again. Until emaciated crows scream delight at the carcass, at the very bones of humanity we consider to be left without homes. Let the eagles pick, for now. They live in hope that quiet pray will come resigned, someday, to lay their Promethean bodies down along the rocks and beg, beg, beg for the beaks of starvation to swallow their life’s dissatisfaction.
Are we dissatisfied with the night that calls our names? Twinkling like pyres from one thousand miles reach, to where the smell of fuelled flesh can break the eyes of steeled minds, and rope-like arms. Are we dissatisfied with a life without harm? The clouds have laid to the heavens their furious, threats of fervour. They have called without pity, clemency, forgiveness. They have called, and they have spoken my name for their sacrifice. To the hammer, I must walk. To the gallows, must I smile?
To the hammer, I must run.