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.
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.
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