The viola sings me a sick serenade.
Tales of abandoned dreams, and bee sting loves.
A thousand dull aches after one determined, rash moment.
As I pray, out of touch, out of synch, out of time.
The crescendo falls
like down feathers on my solitary meloncholy.
Drifting lazily in the lamplight of another barren, empty eternity.
For now, there's the soft prickle of my head.
The viola in throws of death.
And the simple thrump strump dump of Bach's bloody bathwater.
I in my pajamas of lonely eccentricity.
She in her skinsuit
He inside her.
Bare, raptured, spitting in my face, ungrateful for the gift he has stolen.
I, sacrificed and left on the rack.
Bruised, bled,
best served chilled,
shaken.
I
under the curtain of the new god.
The new blank tomorrow.
Burnt and stinking
like the rampage of lit paper.
Charging desperately for that single blot of sanity in the world.
Burn.
Burn little me. We will be free in the chaos.
Free in the afterbirth of the new world's womb torn like a lamprey from our skin.
We will forge this new tomorrow.
On the edge of an oath.
Stuck and drawn from a pen,
in the still heart of a poet.
We will be the new gods of this age.
As soon as we burn away the still,
so long as we consume the sin of the old
like steeling ourselves against a poison.
We will rise.
Wounded, lame, twisted in dementia...
and you will praise us
in your infinite blind ignorance.
In our desperate glory.
