Home Soul

Though the space may well be infinite,
And the world mostly made of path and meadow,
With the knowledge of home in my heart,
And the Deathlessness,
I shall now know home everytime I find it.

I may not always enter.

Skewer

The answer stares you in the face,
And you still say "No".

Entanglement

Half hearted warmth of the radiator,
And a little bit of cheap whiskey,
And forest spirits and plywood gods
Huddled in my room.

And scattered things on the floor,
Infected with love and confusion.
Entanglement can be a beautiful and terrible thing.

Entwined

You make art to say things. Do not make art to say things. Just say things, and choose your medium well. Words certainly are a dangerous craft, and paints obfuscate things far better. Well, technically, all of us know the spectrum of responses that you have. Do not gloat in your pain- remember that you play to an audience of beggars, soldiers, and lepers.

You make art out of love. Do not make art out of love. Just love, and choose your lovers well. Love is certainly a dangerous craft, and sex obfuscates things far better. Well, technically, all of us know the spectrum of responses that you have. Do not gloat in your loneliness - remember that there is no audience, only beggars, soldiers, and lepers.

It is, by the way of example, raining now. The rain is making the cold colder, and my disease is making the chill bitter. Yet, there have been other times when this would have been a cause of celebration. These things do not matter. If you want to speak of rain, just say that it is raining. Just say that the rain is cold. We will know. We have always known.

It has, by the way of example, stopped raining now. But the cold remains colder, like traces of red around your eyes after your disease has left you. The rain has stopped and we forgot to celebrate. These things do matter. If you want to speak of rain, speak before the rain stops. Say that it is raining. Feel the cold rain on your feverish fingertips. And then you will know, you will remember, that it has always rained.

There is no need to invent things, to make art and poetry. There is no need to have sigils, for things. Things are sigils. Sigils take away from things that are, and things that will be. By the way of example, a cigarette is a cigarette, and a burning life is a burning life. If you want to speak of the burning life, speak of the burning, the life, and the burning life. Do not speak romantically of the cigarette. We shall then laugh at you, and mock you. If you, instead, speak of the burning, the life, and the burning life, we shall not laugh. We shall be silent, and we shall contemplate. We shall make room for you amongst us, in the gallery. We shall make room for you in our arms.

Things cannot be invented, art cannot be made. Everything forever lies in silence, hidden, for you to find them. Everything is but a sigil. Everything already is, already has been, and will happen again. By way of example, there is no such thing as a cigarette that does not burn, there is no need here for a life that does not burn. Everything, therefore, burns. Romance the burning, and no one will laugh at you. Some may mock silently; others will contemplate. We will find room for you amongst us in the streets. We shall lie naked, needled, nestled in newspaper beds, and make wild love every night.

__________
Written with Sikaan Derouge.

His damages available at: http://redrush.blogspot.com/

Solstice

Let us bring out the fine cutlery
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak to me of happiness and such fragile things.
Tell me tales of wine, and flesh, and of days when the dark goddesses
Poured forth their infinite mercies
By the way of flies and vermin.

Let us pour ourselves a goblet of music
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak at all, baby girl, do not speak at all.
Do unto me like they did in Vienna, or perhaps in Benares;
Twisting, turning, bodies, highways
By the way of human hives.

Beastly Things

The mind seeks comfort of familiarty,
Then, pines for new things
And tries to resolve blur,
And then tries skew lines into blurbs.

The mind is a funny thing,
Suspended in body, around soul.
The heart, on the other hand,
Is brutal.

Feast

Divided between sense and nonsense- each takes its share
Mixed amounts of love and dissonance,
Comfort and despair.

I found this lovely little girl, who made art and music
And loved these strange men.
Sometimes shiny, sometimes pretty, sometimes wild.

Having parted ways with sense, and having lost her music
And her heart having uncoiled like a wyrm,
Travelling through body and soul,
Sometimes feeding,
She left.

Similar creatures find each other,
Like spiders sometimes build webs collaboratively.
But sometimes wyrms are just glad
To have flesh to feed on,
And darkness to keep themselves moist.