The Many Faces of God

The Many Faces of God

​ Marion loves to wear her lips in pink, glossed in a manner of delusional innocence. She walks to her daytime job at the newspaper office every morning and decorates the lies of the world with the whims of her boss. She’s been with men before, but most of them were never lovers. She eats popcorn every evening and gives her dinner the accompaniment of the finest of wines from Southern France. She gets the money from her father, who divorced her mother seven years ago. He loves her well and ensures that she eats her meals on time and has enough to buy her pink gloss. Marion is sad that life never seems to take an exciting turn as the months of her years fly by. Marion is beautiful, but Marion is sad. The cobbled streets of Paris give her no more solace than the wide roads that connect her city to the rest of Europe. While the job at the newspaper office does enough to help Marion hide her mind from herself for eight hours a day, she fills her soul with grimace and hatred for life every night when her cheeks touch her pillow. A Christmas came when the wine didn’t do enough and the broken heart of Marion befriended a rope that hung tightly from a ceiling fan. It was not a tragedy, it was a movement of fate and Marion was gone.

Felix loved his usual doses of LSD by the beach every twice or thrice a year. He believed that the mind needed to be reset every time it got too clouded with the mushy movements of the mundane world. But the last time around, Felix was imprinted. Felix had always believed that his awareness was separate from the objective world and he could dip his hands in the water without getting wet. But the LSD had brought him to believe that everybody shared the same ability. This induced a flame of spiritual jealousy deep inside the materialistic caverns of Felix’s soul. So he turned to DMT to find an explosive way out of the confoundedness that kept him separate from his ecstasy. The DMT worked. It gave him peace. At least it did the first time. The second time, Felix was imprinted again. And this time, he was drawn to strongly feel that the human body was an unfortunate bondage and this vacation to the Earth was an opportunity to free one’s soul from bondage. The wrists of Felix met the sparkling sharpness of an unbranded kitchen knife and left his body lying cold and still in his mother’s kitchen. Felix was beautiful and Felix was free. And now he was gone.
Dr. Kennelly was a victim of Asthma and she had dedicated her life to cancer research. Her everyday contact with tragedy had given her the courage to become an alcoholic. Her everyday interaction with death had given her the wisdom to become loose in speech and careless with her research. When age brought the perception of “fifty years old” into the awareness of Dr. Kennelly, she decided that her lifelong rejection of tobacco smoking was a hoax and she let her resistance slip into the delights of spending $200 a month on tobacco. Her Asthma met several instances of acute torment and left Dr. Kennelly struggling for breath in a twin bed in her lonely bedroom. Her daughter would visit her once a day and kneel beside her, reading poetry from Gibran and Rumi trying to give the old woman a sense of eternity. Dr. Kennelly was beautiful, but she didn’t know that. A morning came when breath had become a matter of perpetual endurance. She was a medical lady. It wasn’t much of an effort to find the pills that would bring her peace. Her daughter read her eulogy and seemed to be the only one that wept at her funeral. Dr. Kennelly’s research was taken up by some other team across the country who eventually made progress. But nobody will remember Dr. Kennelly. Nobody will remember the soul that was spilt because of its contact with the mortality of human dreams.
Bobby Dream was a delightful young poet whose verses dared to explore the darker nature of human existence. He left his heart to the safekeeping of his childhood sweetheart, Emily Karma, who ensured the softness of Bobby’s heart when his talent swam swiftly into the spotlight of concrete human society. Bobby Dream’s verses gave hope to his friends and reminded them that life was no struggle to make it to the throne, but instead a dance to make the grave itself a throne. Bobby’s friends implored him to take his literature to the world in a formal, published manner. Bobby resisted for several years but finally found the plasticity in his mind to reject his rebellious human heart. After nine bestsellers, Bobby decided to go on a romantic date with his hypocrisy. He looked back on his teenage rebellion and touched its innocence again. He admitted that he had failed his purpose. Ms. Karma was now married to a man who worked at the steel factory and she had three children. One winter morning, Bobby Dream saw her walking with her youngest who seemed to hop along as her mother smiled in the sunshine. The smile gave Mr. Dream a heavy remembrance of his carefree heart in the days of his youth. Today had become an endless struggle through sessions of book signings and new contracts with the publisher. All Bobby wanted was to lay in Emily’s lap again and listen to her whistling as the cold breezes of winter would reflect off the warmth of their communion. Mr. Dream would never find such a moment again. As he penned down his last poem, Mr. Dream polished the pistol that seemed so friendly today. Emily Karma shed tears on the mud that would make the grave of Bobby Dream. Bobby was beautiful and forever in love. He took away from himself as much as the world had done. Mr. Dream’s poems live on, but Bobby is gone.
They were all beautiful and now they’re gone. Does that mean that the lives that they lived were any less charming? We move and we move struggling through the resistances of our hearts hoping that eternity would kiss us before we meet our doom. Is it that eternity is a gift only for the few? Is it possible that our mortality is realer than we fear it to be? Is it alright to live our lives in an unforgivable vibration of boredom and hatred chasing dreams that were sold to us by people who were just like us? What are dreams? Why do we dream? Why do we aspire for higher states of human living? Let the sound of the sky’s violins create causeways in our hearts and remind us of our inherent beauty. There is a sense of needlessness that is natural to our hearts and if we dare to touch it again, we might meet the peace that we have craved for ever since we left the warmth of simplicity in our younger years. We are chasing the things that we believe will help us dance, but we never see that this is the only moment in which we can dance. I am a man of poetry, music, and other erotic things. I have touched beauty in the middle of the darkness, with the ability to rejoice even when nobody is watching. It has taught me that my mortality is my liberation; the very foundation of what we can deem beautiful in this immense, miraculous life. If all understandings fail, the only thing that we need to remember is that we are free. And our freedom can never be blemished by the streetlights of space-time that help us dance between what is real and what is not.

Letter to a Girl

Letter to a Girl

I sit by an oak,
A little sadder than I was,
When yesterday told me,
That my memories were beginning to fade

Come sit beside me, my love.
I have a broken guitar, a little cash,
A home enough for warmth in winter.
And eyes that will always see you,
For who you are
I have no plans for tomorrow,
And no dreams for the next ten years.
All I have is a breath stained with whisky,
And laughter soaked in honesty
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I’ve got something more real for you
I’m a living man,
Who spills whisky on your pretty clothes
And forgets your birthday,
And sometimes even,
Skips making love for more whisky
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I can give you real life,
And all its broken tunes

They’ve told us about the north and south,
About time and how to tease it
They’ve told us about pretty and ugly,
About the eloquent, and the perverse
I can give you neither of that,
I can’t remember to hold you before you fall,
And surely I can never promise you,
That I will defend your fragile heart forever
They’ve told us about love and music,
About sandy beaches and misty hills,
And the warmth of penetration,
And the security of marital bondage
Can’t give you none of that darling,
All I’ve got to offer,
Is wine, bread, and incomplete music
All I can give you,
Is this moment
And believe me, now is all you want,
Because now is all we have,
And if you take my hand,
I can show you the delightful detachedness,
From all our dreams of a perfect life,
I will heal your heart of certainty,
And burn your vulnerability,
Before the dawn of sensibility comes to steal you,
Away from me

They’ve explained the rules of attraction,
Sold us their biblical imprisonments of fidelity,
And held us captive to sinful monogamy
They have stolen our fragrances,
And given us selective interaction in exchange
Tell me my love, why must I, who beholds your wonder,
Pass you by on the sidewalk, like you do not exist?
Why must I, who is melting before your existence,
Plan a sentence that appreciates your being?
Such a senseless world, with senseless rules;

If you lend me your hand,
I will take you on quite the drunken dance,
Perverse, imperfect, insecure,
But honest.
To a place where you can unveil,
The hidden imperfections,
That feed and nourish your womanhood
To a place,
Where love is undefined
Where we can bathe unclothed,
Beneath a sun that knows no judgment,
In the presence of each other,
Holding our raw hearts,
In the palms of our childish desires
Wild, but not wicked,
Intoxicated, but not asleep
Coming alive together,
In a place where we can find heaven,
And stay there, forever.

Netted

Netted

We’ve heard much; her hair,
Curled into a past filled with strong hatred,
Spice, ignored interest, and consensual harlotry
Aha! Well, she’s a maze,
Quite the intricate confusion that I desire
The broken piece of human cutlery,
That I prefer to shelve instead of dispose
She’s made of sharp pieces,
Of edges that will make you bleed
That look blunt in the dark,
And sparkle only in starlight
She’s broken, secretly; broken enough,
For me to want to fix her

Too much time sometimes, I conclude we spend,
In the treacherous abstractions of poetry,
In the brushstrokes of unseen colors,
And unread letters
Describing this tremendous woman,
Selling tiny crumbs of our souls,
To find words that penetrate,
The heart and mind of meaning
Sometimes, all it takes,
Is to look at her legs.
Netted in the finest black satin,
Calling out to the animal in you
To forget the mannerisms of polished etiquette,
And unleash the brokenness,
That wishes for nothing more,
Than to simply be heard

Instead of watching,
Her walk down that supermarket aisle,
Picking tomatoes, cilantro, and cooking oil
Staring like an otter in the middest moment of dawn,
At the appearing horizon
Go tell her, tell her about her netted towers,
Of the most artsy glory you’ve ever seen
Tell her how they torment you at 3 AM,
When all you can think about is her,
And how you’re human,
And weak,
And as honest as a summer sunrise

Sometimes, nothing matters,
Except those netted stockings,
That clothe the most glorious art ever seen,
Two legs, two towers, that breathe beauty,
That emanate the cleanest glow light can afford
Sometimes, some things need to be told,
Cause people aren’t erotic enough,
To embrace the sweet secrets of humanness,
That make living, worth living.

People in the Summer

People in the Summer

As I walk in sunshine,
And watch the many faces of an unnamed god,
Walk through these impertinent streets,
Filled with rapturous slang,
Scents of olive oil and melting steak
I turn around and remember,
The faces of those older summers,
In another place, another time, another age almost,
Faces I cared too less to value,
To kiss in my dreams and cherish over expensive scotch
I think of those faces,
And how each one of them,
Told a different story, a different drama,
An epic. Each one, waiting to be explored,
And yet I walked over those faces,
Trampled over them in the arrogance of my delight,
Soaked in the easy scents of mystique and reader’s delirium

The summer is young, the long summer,
And I lie in delight watching these figures pass me by
One side of me, swimming in endless ambitious dream,
The other in questions, scrabbling words and dabbling numbers
Two sides me, clashing beneath the August sunshine,
Battling for decision, for clarity in the middle of sinusoidal transparency

We ache to love, ache to know the insides of each other,
To look into each other’s eyes and know what makes us tick
You see, real compassion hides in vulgarity
In the deepest of intimacy, that each pair of living eyes,
Craves for.
But hey, we’re too lukewarm,
Too in diplomatic agreement with cowardice,
Settling for cheap handshakes,
And heartless salutations,
Greetings that never touch any soul,
Hellos and goodbyes that smell like socks;
Empty people, cruel people,
Funny? Well, who wouldn’t think so?

We need to touch more, look inside more,
To feel the heat that drives each other,
To sink ourselves in the passions of our neighbors,
To share in their delights, writhe in their pain,
We need indulgence to cure this comfortable world.
There’s no finding of that in our halls that demand courtesy,
In our homes that expect grooming and manners
No, we need wildness in our temples,
Of staplers, printers, and telephone harlotry
In our little rooms filled with the foul fragrances of formality
We need wildness, darling,
And we need it everywhere

People in the summer,
Our lives are longer than we have deemed them to be
Happier and blessed with more depth,
Than we choose to imagine
If you leave your eyes to rest in the ice,
You will never find the sun
You will leave your heartbeat to its cowardly convenience,
Your dreams in the hands of paltry soothsayers
And your eternal life in the claws of mortality

But you won’t let that happen, will you?

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Depth, Yellow Skirt, and Other Things

Sea and sky,
As the winter tame them.
All in, ecclesiastic tune,
Thunder, roar, yellow graveyard,
The leaves know of no self-discovery.
Summer comes, an autumn in a whisper,
And nobody spares awe a mention

Two men by a fountain, agree on depth,
The depth of love, the depth of champagne,
The depth of many things,
Like the bitch who spoke aloud,
Early that morning.
The fat-assed cherry damsel that crowned the corridor,
With her vocabulary-rich entrée’s,
Flavored in semi-pretentious small talk,
Bland love for soul-suicidal ritual,
And melted perfection.
The depth of many things,
They go on whispering, and the rare scream,
About the depth of life.
They like speaking,
About the depth of many things.

There’s the blush-decorated angel in a yellow skirt,
In sly movement across the cobble-stoned sidewalk,
That borders a white fountain, with stone ribbons around it
She meets a large-eyed monster,
With ponied hair and ice-cream eyelashes
Ah, pay attention my friend,
We now hear them speak of life’s many troubles,
The endless portal of breath,
That only merits whining without wine.
How sad? Who whines without wine?
Such sobriety is murderous,
And yet the wind dances with her skirt,
Trying hard to strip her off her necessary pretense
Yellow skirt, sweetness, ah the delight in pretense,
She bears us no harm, this child of god’s sarcasm
Her skirt conceals more than her deceitful virginity
It conceals an aching soul,
That has never tasted the freedom,
Of careless being, and absolute lightness.

An old chap, 22 years old, approaches,
There’s nothing much here.
Move on, move on.

Incoming,
Seventeen years old, cigarette,
Pants that look like a plastic cover,
Holding an ass that seems bigger than his brain,
This fellow carries the fate of us all;
Of all humanity,
This worthless piece of fainting symbolism,
That represents the scarred inner existence,
Of the entire monkey civilization
This expression of the totality of our doom,
If you look into his eyes,
You will see desires as soft as pancakes,
Broken memories as tender as baby skin,
And a mask, made of black ivory,
And educated ignorance

The scene plays on my friend,
And we, what do we do?
We watch this world roll on,
Through its miseries and ecstasies
And we say nothing
The scene, is holy, holistic,
Sacred.
And hence, we say nothing.

There is quite a bit to be enchanted by,
In this strange old world.
And in your pursuit of endless alphabets,
Beside your little name,
And your little sweet precious idea of a life,
You seem to miss quite a bit.
Or maybe I do?
We miss quite a bit.
But hey, it’s never too late to quit running,
And start walking.
To quit chasing,
Start being.
It’s quite a delight, watching this world from a little corner,
Coffee in hand. Long cigarette,
A taste for honest cynicism,
And an invincible love to be forever amazed,
With the glorious symphonies of the eternal sky.

Come now, the night is too awake,
To set our glasses down.
Tomorrow’s just a schedule,
Now’s alive.
Fill em up!

Cloudy Lines

Cloudy Lines

Entrenched and aching,

In a mild prison, that is barred by soft breasts,

And visions of a delight that never arrives

If you can look into the darkness,

That I have erected in the midst of my perfection,

You might tumble into rapturous laughter,

Gently urinating on my funny dreams

 

There’s a girl who lives in a cottage,

That stands beside a thin river

She lives alone, she smiles,

She bakes bread, has a dog,

Drinks whisky every night

She spares no mercy to offer her heart to the world of men,

No time,

To lend her ears to the tremors of fear that rule our world

No television, no radio, no internet,

Just her whisky, dog, and bread.

She’s happy, I’ve kissed her, loved her in summer,

Hated her at fall, touched her warm skin in winter

I’ve known her fears, tasted her dreams,

Drank her whisky, stolen her wine.

Her life rolls on toward oblivion,

Like the stars do at dawn.

She spares no thought for tomorrow’s possibilities,

And dies to the whispers of midnight light.

 

Lyrical delight leads us to naught but damnation,

Too much I have kept my hopes in verse

Invested my heart in beauteous tones,

Strung my heart to give life to words.

I have no complaints. Just a broken heart,

And a mind too small to hold and embrace,

Its endless frames of melancholy.

 

Words exist to tell lies.

There is nothing a word can tell,

That is anything but a lie.

Can you see? Look far into your mind,

Can you see?

Without words, our lives are nothing,

And yet everything, and nothing.

Without words, these constructions of color,

Have no place in existence.

Our world is a world of words,

And we, the most gifted of all liars,

We wondrous tellers of verses,

We poets, we dreamers,

We weave the deepest,

And most elusive of all worlds.

 

I feel like my soul empties into the night,

As I give birth to more verse.

You cannot see, no looking into me.

I bleed. A blood that has no taste,

From a spirit that has no breath.

I am the messenger of death,

And I say to you,

“Go now, live. Tomorrow is a tearful thing,

Death is our blessing. Our end, our gift.

Tonight you see only the endless sky,

So, that when death comes,

You might see beyond it.”

A Current of Reflection

A Current of Reflection

This morning, we shall chart our hearts,
And find the few pearls of memory,
That wage war with our destinies,
And win to our delight

Inside sometimes, little drops of heaviness,
Bring a milky solitude to me
Like cream that tastes of infected phlegm,
There are many ounces of regret in me
Through the rays of endless remembrance,
I cannot know if in this life or beyond
I feel a weary ache that decorates me with loss
A fiery torment that rages like the waves in an ocean of fire,
And me, a simple soul stranded in chains of tears
In surrender, in sorrow, in mindless poesy mourning,
At the glorious delight of humanity’s tragedy

If you look hard enough through my sweetened words,
You can find a broken soul, vulnerable, fragrant, yet broken
It’s all yours to touch, for you to break more—eat into my spirit
The currents of reflection come like a storm,
To tease my tired mind out of idolism to elation
We’ll keep on teasing ourselves into this wondrous game,
Of love, rejection, denial, and laughter in autumn forests
We will forever drink from the chalices of friendship,
Finding connection in mutually adored vulgarity
Seeking touch in the palms of our poisonous counterparts
Craving their tenderness when we know that all comes to naught
We will still sell our hearts to our women,
And love them in winter and nourish their wombs,
With more than our seed, more than our hopeless romanticism

We will shake ourselves from our anxiety,
As the winter reveals its treachery in the summers of sunshine
I pray for that hour of redemption,
When our non-existent dreams are exiled into the abyss of awakening
When we look into the eyes of our children,
And see the tricking secrets of our older selves
Tonight perhaps, I will come to see that our children,
Are our older selves
And life moves backwards, not forwards,
Returning to an age of accepted imperfection,
Where we let our fingernails grow into the soil,
Leaving our cheeks to tan themselves into a dark peach,
Allowing our hair to smell of all undesirable fragrances
A world without mirrors, an innocent world

There lies, a whole world of madness and brilliance,
Behind the multi-colored irises of you and I
A secret world, a drunken world,
With fairies and alien whores, with magic
And if we transcend our addictions to touch,
That world attracts to itself the mantle of reality

As I lose myself to perpetual abstraction,
I will put up my hands to bring you along
The absolute place does not exist,
The promised land is here
I am your milk, and you my honey,
And our blood the water of this fragrant soil
I must forget the delightful offerings,
Of this selfish society
I must reject, your ambitious plans,
I am a child of the Earth, a prophet of blasphemy
And here I am, offering myself to you,
To crucify me,
With the nails of your limited understanding,
To the cross of your own demise

There is no word that can awaken the world,
There are a few sounds, a few visions,
But these are too few in this age.
So forget awakening, come smile with me,
And we shall go dancing into unknown galaxies,
And make love to the stars,
And birth more dreams and more eternities,
More words and more numbers,
More wine and more divine,
To feed the curiosity of our future selves.

Tea today, no wine.

The Endless Dawn

The Endless Dawn
Behind my eyes,
Lurking beneath every feeling
Hiding behind all form,
Expressed, yet unknown,
Backstage, yet the showrunner,
Endless, yet momentary,
So groovy, so secretive,
Forever unknowable, yet existential
Whisky brings a bit to light,
A little herb shines it more
Some chemical revelation,
Brings it to dawn
Fungal fruition, seems to tickle it
But yet, there it lies,
Unknown, unknowable,
Unseen, unseeable
That nameless miracle,
That is life
That is I.

Breathing in the Shadows

Breathing in the Shadows

Sometimes, we all get sad. We get distraught, entirely confused and craving for some light, a little inch of understanding that might salvage us the remnants of our half-wasted lives. The various flavors of guilt steal our attention to remind us of the miserable ways we treated people, the low energy moments when we fed off the joyous memories of some ancient glory we believed to behold but had no part to credit ourselves to. Sometimes, the whole of human existence feels like a ghostly movement of flawed vocabulary and broken spirit. And then, we turn to rum, on some days its whiskey and the few days of wine. And every day, there’s beer. The liquid diet serves to cure both a broken heart and the guilt that spurns from the memory of other hearts that were broken.

The universe has a tiny irking for brokenness. It kicks itself about it and yearns for more and more brokenness. Brokenness gives perfection a glorious crown. It is an element of art that decorates the highest level of creativity with aliveness. It hosts an immense power to alchemize existence into something higher than itself. Here we are, the pinnacle of the universe’s desire—humanity. A wretched race built on the broken ideals of morality, love, and hope. Here we are, a tormented people striving for greatness and blind to the doomed quality of our ignored mortality. We are the peak of the universe’s magic, and the foundation of that peak is the broken nature of our hidden spirits of whose existence we will always be doubtful of.

Every journey into the realm of understanding—to understand oneself, others, all of it—every journey, smells of vanity and stinks of cheap beer at the end. Sometimes it’s best to say things in a way that the only implications are the things being said and no greater meanings hidden or pointed at. The power of transcending grammatical perfection and lingual decency is the only power that helps anybody break out of the shackles of their own concocted verses of rhyme, meaning, clarity, and eventual boredom.

Each alphabet, each sound, is an explosion of the one thing there is—life. Is it here? What does it mean for something to exist or not exist? What does existing mean? Do I exist? Do you, who is reading this exist? Or are you just a swirling in the cloudy imagination of dreams that I spurned yesterday. So many men want their lives to end on the shoulders of a pretty woman and on the rims of a glass filled to the brim with rare whiskey stored in nurtured barrels for a million years. I have no dreams for tomorrow. I want today. And the more I look at it, the more I see that there is no today. Today was over, many years ago. All that remains is the inklings of the little child that dreamt each day of a future that never came and a future that never comes. I like Ms. Plath, glorious and alive in heart look up at that fig tree and wish for every bit of it that it can offer, but I see it all, grown rotten and created to hoax the only thing I ever believed to be alive—myself.

Our lives become staircases into the shadows not because of sorrow that we claim to be our own, but sorrow that we claim to have shared with the tender reflections of ourselves—other people. The many masks and personas that we dance with from dawn to dusk into the weary walks with our dreams at night, we are the dreams of endless nothingness. Have you ever felt like nothing amazes you anymore? Felt like the greenness of the trees and twinkles of the stars were nothing but boring kisses from the same old mother? In the end you see, all things are robbed of charm and light, robbed of dreaminess and steaminess, robbed of life. The only fear the living are left with is the fear of who gets robbed and who keeps robbing. Neither exist.

Somewhere between this dreamed beginning and feared end, there arose this “I am”. And “I am” is the hoax that breeds this endless oblivion.

With the end of things, all that remains is the infinite potential for a new beginning. Even such a thing as glorious and eternal as poetry meets mortality. The only real thing about being alive is death—the fact that one day, all this that we know and love and cherish, hate, despise, and scorn at will be gone. All gone! And then I, my own sweet precious I that I nurtured and kept moist with attention, light, and sweetness will come to what? Nothing. I see that now my friend, and smile.

I’ll ramble till the sun goes down on his knees and begs me for mercy. I will speak till the breath flowing in my toes leaves through my nails. I will not preach but I will scream. I have no reasons for my dances in the moonlight, no causational rendition of meaning to my madness. All you have is me, and the experience that is me. All we have is the stars, to mourn and complain of our mortality.

If you aren’t afraid of death you haven’t seen life yet. I’ll leave you now, with an empty heart and a shallow hope for an eternal tomorrow. Give it up sweet tearful friend, from birth to death is one large lemon, and we swim through burning ourselves, slowly disappearing into a forgotten nothing.

 

art – The Road Through Death – the jamesstark

Arise! You Wonderchild

Arise! You Wonderchild

The leaves whisper through monsoon’s final mourns,
The last secrets that shall keep us warm for winter
We’ve danced to mindless tunes,
Ached and tormented our little selves, confused
Leaving the best of our poetry to remain unsung,
Confounded struggling for release in the lower corridors

I’ve reconstructed for you a semblance of my new self,
One in which you can be drunk as yourself
Leaving my dry lips to still preach mythology and highness,
Lost ecstasies and faint tragedies of birth and demise
The guitar strings weep to no avail,
To lift our galactic tribe to the higher corridors
Of existence, of dancing, of knowing

I’m unaware of things that have absolute meaning,
Of absolute theories and absolute clarities
I know no absolute secrets or subtle deviations,
That can trick our minds away into awakening
There are no tricks hiding at the edges of galaxies,
There is no awakening of which we can tell

Arise! My glorious tribe, arise in the middle of the moonlight,
Arise! Children of the final rebellion, take my hand
No more suffering and confusion, no more meagerness,
Our astral selves are aching for freedom
We will come dance draped in red sleeves and black sweaters
Arise! My comrades beneath the moon

What better poetry remains to be told,
Than the poetry of nonsense?
Than the songs of endless delirium,
And arrogant nonchalance
Than the verses that stink of easy ignorance,
Pale desire and cheap whisky

At the edge of every song’s melodic note,
There is dancing a playful epiphany,
That feeds on your deepest boiling emotion,
Birthing black clouds of delight and understanding
I see in music simple notes that open doors,
Doors to places neither greater nor higher,
Places simple and new, unbordered, colored

Close your eyes my wonderchild, kiss yourself
I will touch your brow with the sound of my voice,
And stroke your inner hardness,
I will rub it in cotton silk and milk it to understanding
Close your eyes sweet moonchild, hush now,
Drink your whisky, smoke your medicine
The stars descend down upon our rising hearts,
To awaken our oldest fears of dark damnation
To show us ways in which we cannot escape,
But dive, into the deepest of oblivion

Are you hurting? You poor little watered flame,
Let me light you with the voices of the wind,
Let me bring you up to the halls of our fathers,
Where we can reconstruct the past,
To be whatever we want it to be
Arise! Now, sweet wonderchild,
The world awaits our fingers,
To come milk its flowing rivers and hustling trees,
To give the winds of its wisdom,
An eternal author
Who though never lost through all these years of wandering,
Somewhere began to believe so

Arise my wonderchild! This is the end,
Or beginning