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Today I asked for death, following incidents of maddening proportion,
and they gave me disease on the rocks.
Little starlit laughter bouncing between realities
where stick-figure men come to full color
on a pallet painted cobweb of intricate thought.

All the work of late dripping bourbon rain
the scent of vodka staining my dreams
a masochist in merit alone,
finding the paralytic insects crawling from my pen
and introduced to the brain stem as means of our old religion
bow your head, and once may be saved.

Indeed, like school children adrift in sleep
with eyes closed against the keys
found the antithesis of our strife.

When upon we wake, cryptic messages begin to sense our soul
and through us the gods speak
with the roused blood of anarchy.

Cry, dear savage,
upon the page decorates in very plain
language for all to see
that tis' not a message, but only a plea.


if you find yourself liking this, or any other pieces here, feel free to check out 100+ works posted @ www.myspace.com/elysianjudas   dont mind the rants, please

In the towers that peer over the dreamscape
a land of rainy days and rainbows
small laughter carrying on the breeze,
dodging drops so we may have a song to dance to.

Hand in hand, another holding you close
our feet begin to the worldly beat
smearing bright paints onto an easel of grey
a whispering into the torrent of sounds around us
a love-painted epiphany dwelling in a starry eternity.

And thus, with the laughter on the breeze,
you and I would be set free
religated to a new day ahead,
and with many words left unsaid, we would guess...
reaching our hands together into the darkest night
to pull stars 'cross the skies and light a heart again.


© Nick Rice 2009

She whisked away my soul, said I, to the demon who stood before me. She left me free to roam, said she, in a far and distant memory. Here I have seen exposed, said I, men and women burning gingerly. I will follow my muse when he goes said she, as she whispered on the fleeting breeze. Your essence will leave you soon, to me, such fleeting breaths are your last. But I have not lived long enough to rue, to her, to deport my baby from the nest. Your child will not know your rule, to me, nor a name to pick you from the mass. He has your eyes, and your fierce love, said she, in my dreams I can hear him cry. And with a handshake our time is up said he, is there noone to say goodbye? What do you wish to trade? asked the demon That only she lives and mothers my son and that her affection for him never wanes that he may go on and forever love.
Take a second value your life and the skeletons left behind do not forget the past There is blood behind on the fingertips and when but a taste breaks our mind we'll fall we crack, these ghosts come back to sit beside and taunt of immaturity soon, skin will leather and we'll be old men looking back, trying to drown in our misery
Dust in denim jeans food for worms. We live, so that we may die. The hollow within wanting more, but nothing left to give. Give my heart, my blood. Give breath, my touch. Give that single best day to truly live, and the dust will fade, and I will become nothing. Spoken is of love, as if by comprehension of the word alone we liberate our lives from death. That somehow, within the company of another person life has more meaning. The facade keeps dancing, keeping pace with the beat that pounds within our chests. Words fester upon our lips- the iron nail suffocating us in our coffins- and we become puppets for the afternoon play.
We waste our breath when but a whisper would suffice. Turning a fist to the murder of men, but allowing that fist to fall. Sitting alone, when standing demands more respect. Rotting, slowly to begin without a single word of remorse. The spirit fights on in the mind but furthur adventure is left only to action. Tear this world down.
"How long?" He asks, though the answer rings in his ears. Doctors have betrayed, and the once lived life lives again in his mind. Childhood, and funerals. Watching his best friend float like an angel in the water. Too scared to move, to frightened to look, the induction of God's hand played early in life. Highschool and hormones. These memories not fully complete, too much "experimenting" to say the least. New best friends, new funerals, a pitiful existence meant to engrave a grain of discipline and knowledge on an unready mind. Graduation. The embarking fools unto this world, forgot the golden rule. "You can be, whatever you want to be" seems like the catchphrase of parents never truly explored. Those friends were lost to the world sent out a sheep among lions of industry. Freshman year, the woe of love. Met for study groups, turned to dates, no more partying, a strict devotion to one woman. The spent time allows development, as the love far surpasses aestetics, and finds itself burrowed in the soul. A child on the way, marriage in the air. The delivery, harrows his soul and hollows his love. Another funeral. His child's life, exchanged for his love's death. A trade he would have reversed had he the touch of God. Tears flow in his eyes, driving home. He curses the Almighty, swearing that it should have been he, that died. His wish, answered. The tears blocked out the road, and the truck that spun him out of control. Flipping over and over again, a calm came upon. When next his eyes open, there is a doctor, and he is asking the question "how long?" Death is certain, and now, through his strained throat he thanks God.
we, who have seen a thousand times more the death of men of rage. the children who wield those terrible weapons, and push us to kill again we, who know not the pain of death but how the sword pierces the skin the lives within us destroyed by fear that murders our immortal soul. we, who fear our dreams, the dead faces staring back, are no longer recognized by family or loves clinging. we, who died before we are dead want nothing of this world our thoughts numbed by self-loathing who rest on the edge of the sword.
Turned Hermod's blind eye Tearing through bone And sinew. "Ride to Hel" to bring back purity to stop tears from touching the ground the pire burns tall remembering what white used to mean and what was to come. Capture the trickster, bind him in such a way that he understands the pain of removing the world's joy. When the chains break, those that moved the earth, a new dawn will burn and cleanse. And rise again.
Death comes easy and cheap. Like a burst of cold air into your lungs, that moment where breath stops. Reaching frozen fingers around your heart deafening the pulse. Alone you die, though fruitless searches for other ways keep life occupied. Children and love amount to nothing in death, just something to cling to while your eyes slowly shut. Your body is not invincible, your life immortal, and while Acheron waits for us all you have not the toll to cross. The ferryman cares not for Earthly possession, nor for your vain appearances. One hundred years await your soul. Death is cheap and easy. What comes after is the purpose of living.
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