Meditation whilst scaling a dream

Be it a spirit as provocateur or a
savior as a catalyst, the light that seems
to breathe upon the pavement of the roads
alights through the stale pornography of
the city, and still, it infinitely (or in jest?)
Delivers the promise of something- something...

If, then, I partake in the ingestion of sustenance
through a straw, while brain aches, melancholic-
if my jaw is wired shut, it is only through hardship;
and its sinew and muscles will be stiffened only by
the secretive nature of sorrow.

With no regard to lend consistency, my progressive

thoughts will yet exhume their party from the fallen
dust of absence and they will align themselves with revolution’s
wisdom; and in such times, beneath the beatific
glower of the moon, I often fail to fathom how even these
many regenerated cells could hold such
massive feelings of love.

How have I come to see
torment and exhaustion wax a Nirvana like resignation?
How have I seen it-
In the very way that the overt preservation of life begins to
resemble death.

“So where is it, then, that you are going?” a strange
companion once asked...

“If only to kiss the sea…” I answered...

While there exists this anti-matter, let there be matter!

Do not let the waste of callousness keep us from the beach.

And worry not- how this sun will murder us regardless
of atmospheric conditions,
eventually;
so if we’ve not yet liberated completely our killer madness by then,
we shall be baked out of existence.

Yet these holy demons have such feet,
AND I AM ALIVE- I breathe
and you
you comprehend this!
your mind pushes fluids!

So take your love and keep it close to your heart, as
a slumbering cat, and in its consciousness of pleasure- let it purr.

We took such steps upon the moon
to find what we can of infinity
in possibility
and only the weight of probability
inhibits our way. 

Yet even that obstacle
can be overcome.

So then why do you still burn, O, human?
Why, still, the hungry result of
immolation?
Still, mercurial venom like madness seeps into our
minds.
Fingers and limbs fight for room in such an expanse
and souls foam with the froth of rage
as the mind’s belly rumbles-
discontented.

Would the poet then in this time chime only lullabies 
in spying
the butterfly- ignoring the minds that design
the many fuses of bombs?
 
Orpheus: tranquilizer or public crier?
Minerva: appeaser or informant?

Far jaded by the bourgeois concepts of heroics,

I will go- walk beside those who too aspire in search for
the lasting spirit devoid of such vile mutations.

We- to be us, what a feat!
To be those expunged completely by betterment sought
through ourselves- with possibility for all!

With a uniform we call sincerity, to plunge into the
colonies of butchers,
and brush off billboards depicting images
of strewn up prophets in horrific torture...

And despite their boasts of possessing “the way”,
we know well that the path to the future
lies not beneath the agony of the past, but beyond it...

Ceremonious, it would seem, O, you puppets of Moloch-
O, you whores of mammon, that our portions of sorrow should be
relived repeatedly...
But alas!
Your powers end
where our shared tragedy as humanity begins,
and so it is- in such a way that your gods of envy and avarice
are served their deaths... 

Mysterious Night

A warm breeze for a cold night, and the northern hills

be peace as the air strips the trees, until they are as nude

as the bones of ancient priests.

As, tremulous, the party barks inside the house,

its humble foundation shakes and argues with

the far off dread in the trudge of doomed giants.

I stretch my neck and force my face out into the

breeze. The night seems to ask the same question I've 

heard all day: Aren't you cold?

Cold? I do not know. Perhaps on the outside.

For the world is cold enough, often enough.

Though, if on this night there is violence, awful

fists of home, terrible knives of war, and the guns

in the streets that only brother can use against brother,

once they've both been convinced that they are shadows;

the starvation only the innocent can know, the screams

that wish to free the skull from flesh- none in

the celebratory cloud will know any guilt

in forgetting it. ‘So, bless them,’ I think to myself, ‘bless them’

and the clouds part to show a beam of

agreement from the moon. Even if we never speak

a similar language, there is no reason that this love

should ever rot. On such nights, I would embrace all of

those who would see me die, a lonely number in a forsaken

land.

What insects, that have survived the cold, leer,

and they become Minotaurs; and they snort their strange

language when I press my finger to my lips for silence; the

flowers are satyrs waiting to die: ‘The King is dead,’

they say, to which I answer, “I know,”- so they say no more.
And somewhere God says to a group

of felled trees: “My spirit shall not always dwell
with man, for he is also of flesh.”

So bless them? Bless them. So be it.

This most wondrous flesh shall find itself in darkness.

Sonia with legs in the tresses of her dress, finds

me through the portal opened and, with her, out flows

a torrent of crowded rabble, shocked by a scream of

gaiety. At once she smothers it until it is muffled entirely

by the door. Sonia with her teeth clenched from pills,

scolds me for the search, yet she had found me;
“You are alone,” she says, “Which is fine,” and she

lifts her face to bask in the moonlight, “You would

never let the moonlight meet your loneliness.”

The night clicks away its intricate clockwork, as
Sonia sits beside me and pulls her skirts to cover her

legs: “Aren't you cold?” she asks.

She shows me detailed drawings of the moon from
her notebook and frowns from the uppers

because everyone else is drunk. All that is lacking

are the screams of dying locusts.

In the darkness we will find ourselves and one

another. Our consciousness will merge and continue.

And if on this night, some fragmenting psychopath
lurks in the darkness and watches us with hunger-
There, on the porch, we would not believe it.

The moon glows agreeably, yet it seeks clouds
to hide its scarred face; so with hands capable of
paradise, and loneliness shown bravely, we bade it
stay.