Megalomaniac

Am I not flesh? Am I not blood?
My words are ash, my name is mud.
Yet I am crowned a saviour.

Four souls, forty, four hundred, four thousand.
Four spawn forth four more, and they fall
to their knees before me, their bodies piling up
in an impossible, towering pyramid with palms outstretched
for me to begin my stately ascension to the pinnacle
on the broken backs and bodies of those
who prostrate themselves.

Upon my brow a shining star.
Upon my hand an iron gauntlet.
Upon my feet are heavy boots.

I am not a god; but I am something
more, that defies the mortal confines around
the shell of something divine. I do not see it myself
of course, quite the opposite. There's nothing within
here to love, (in this sense)
and yet love they do, that vast multitude.
They love with a strength and fervor that is reserved
for gods made flesh, who died and were born again
in that orgiastic ecstasy of love and redemption
and pure animistic need.

I will not deny them; I must be He.
I will not forsake them; we must be free.
I will not eschew them; they serve Me.

Cast off sentiment, they whisper,
in the gloom of twilight when all things hold weight,
take up that sceptre and have the courage to wield it
splintering ties, honour, obligation.
Give your lives, they cry to each other
a tide of blood running red-raw at my feet,
give your lives for his hunger
and He will lead you.
Give up your lives.
Give up your lives.
He must not be hindered on his ascension
because if He cannot rise, what hope is there for us?

I am not flesh, I am not blood.
My foes are ash, my friends a flood.
And I am crowned a saviour.

The Fountain

Oh god.

Death is a disease and we will find a cure.
Death is a stranger that we greet with many faces.
Death is pain.
Death is life.
Death is greeted with a 'Not today, thank you'.

We will not give him our ear.
We just need a little more time.
We just need a little more grace.
As the tree of life rockets into space
and the gates of the underworld open.

We will not go to him kicking and screaming.
We will not go to him in the manner befitting
some species of ape that has learned how to count.
We will not go quietly into his embrace.
We will go with a great wailing and gnashing of teeth.
We will not go with a sigh and a shrug of our palsied shoulders
as if to say 'Well, it's about time'.

We will not give him our tongue.
We just need to pray a little louder.
We just need to find the right words
To keep him at bay in this place.
As the tree of life rockets into space
and the gates of the underworld open.

Death is near, and we will run from him.
Death is at every door and behind every eye.
Death is you.
Death is I.
Death is assaulted and defeated and denied.

We will not give him our hand.
We just need a little more might.
We just need to understand.
We just need the sight of his face
as the tree of life rockets into space
and the gates of the underworld open.

It's time to leave.
I'll breach the walls of this place -
our bodies are as prisons -
and I will soar in the heavens
towards the dying star
my will my only weapon
and the ones I love so far
away.

I will not give him my love.
I just need to hold onto you.
I just need to come through the fire.
I just need to drink, and smoke, and swear.
And no doubt he'll catch me unaware
as the tree of life withers in space
and the gates of the underworld tremble.

Everything is a single point.
I cannot bear it a second longer.
Let it return.
Together we will live forever
but this void is intolerable
I will not ask you to weather
this place outside of time.

We will not give him us.
Together we will live forever.
Death is all.
Death is the end.
Death is the road to awe.

The Road to Awe

Natural laws have no pity; together we will live forever.
She's a cruel mistress; the burn marks are easy to hide.
You will return to the cycle; entwine yourself to me.
It has been determined; pray loud enough that I can hear you.

Metamorph

Here in this place we must be meticulous.
Although I am convinced that your searching is ridiculous.
He's not under there.
Or within that.
Flay off the skin and you won't see a sin.
Pull off the head if the faces of the dead
cause you fright. And well they might!
Because he isn't here.
And without him, there is so very much to fear.


I wonder, now
- with that face in such a rictus -
you regret it.
It isn't that you're unfit, of course
but I doubt that this is what you intended.
But here in this place, we must be meticulous.
Only through experimentation can we get at the truth
and although I seem ruthless,
I assure you that I'm approaching this with utmost care.
At any rate and by this point,
I'd hardly call what's left of you aware.


I'll do it all again as I've done a thousand times before.
Blood, bone, sinew, sputum, semen, phlegm galore!
There is no evidence of him in this twitching ball of pus.
There never is, there never was, so surely he's left us!
He's certainly left you; that's true, apologies were made.
But judging from the state of you, you weren't quite up to grade.


And did you see Death, I wonder?
In that fleeting moment before the gristle and the gore?
He's certainly had cause to visit here before.
Was he leaning there against the wall?
Scythe and hood before your fall?
Sackcloth and ashes?
White horse?
Oh, of course.
Do forgive my flippancy.
Jokes are free -
but you're not in a position to answer me.


Once he left your worth was set as the sum of all your parts.
Better's crossed my table.
I'm sorry.
But take heart - (hah! Thank you.) that you're empowering something new.
Something he could never do.
Something true.


Now, let's get those bones out of you.

Jacobson's Warning

You know not what you have done. The terrors in the night that I have held at bay are coming, they're rising up from the floorboards and from the cold earth in the graveyards and they're walking the streets and the foolish, simple kine will lock their doors and say their prayers and they'll be passed over, not because their god is listening, but because they are beneath the notice of these horrors.
The true horror is not that which feeds on life, but that which feeds on death - creatures so monstrous that they can only be satisfied by the destruction of other monsters, creatures that will glut on tainted blood and roll in the viscera of their own kind, creatures that will drink the sea and extinguish the sun and gorge themselves on grave-earth until they explode and their blood drowns the world anew. I have held them at bay, but now in the dull red light they will arise, and they will not be stopped.
But you won't get to meet them, the beasts so monstrous and so beautiful that you valiantly prepare for. Your eyes fixed on the horizon, you will completely miss the snares at your feet, the pitfalls present in your night-to-night unlife. There will be no grand architect of your demise, no high destiny for you to fulfill as you are consumed whole or flayed asunder. You will fall by the wayside to petty in-fighting as you jockey to be the first on the chopping block, and your bodies will have blown away on the wind long before your progenitors come to claim what is theirs by right.
You know not what you have done, but I will watch as it accelerates to meet you, and I will go back to his embrace willingly, knowing that you doomed yourselves long before.

After all, to rule in blood is to rule in truth.

Lethargy

Awake at midday.
Upright by two.
Greet the sun.
Alone, save you.

I spent hours drifting in that place between awake and asleep.
While I was there, everything finally deigned to make sense.
I understood it all, laid out before me in an ever-widening web
or a tapestry, or a set of choking snares, or a maze.
I understood it all.

There's so very much that needs to be done.
A song that needs to be sung, and words that need
to be written.
A challenge made to be beaten.
A dog to be fed.
And a ravenous horde of beasts to be quelled
inside your head.

Oh, and a floor to clean, the rent to pay, a prayer to say.
The little mundane intricacies that weigh upon you.
No wonder you wouldn't rise.
This inspiring malaise that takes you to that place
where it all makes sense
comes at a price.

So stretch yourself out on the rack.
Writhe and cry out as bones crack and muscles pull.
They'll pull out your tongue and they'll pour till you're full.
But if you drift like smoke and fog in a bucket
the talons can't grasp you.

Awake at midday.
Upright by two.
Spit on the sun.
And it might save you.

A Poem by Sally

Because I'm catastrophically vain. Thank you, Sally.




I'll try to keep it short, because otherwise I'll go on
and it'll take an age just to sort the mental threads
my thoughts of you
bind me in.


If there was any way for me to explain this eloquently
simple, poetic words
I would, but I've tried, and it just ends in unwieldy sentences
bursting with useless adjectives- soppy phrases
dripping in normalcy-
and that's what this is not (to me).


It's happening again; I'll try to contain it.
This isn't a poem, but a confession of sorts.


This isn't some appeal for romantic love- no,
too simple of course- and neither is it basic electric lust- though
perhaps I wouldn't exclude it completely. What I want from you
is surely slyer, driven from some ancient sweetened fairy tale
hiding in the back of my head, waiting
for a shining knight to exalt
the beautiful forgotten princess
old delusions, hunting for home.


What my grey cells want is in part understanding:
the return of my naive bounding adoration
for the way you can always hold a room,
the way you hold me.
I'm always drawn to those that can command
in the way I can't,
but aren't drapped in boring perfection besides.
Yes, I know I have a type.
Being unbroken is over-rated in love.
I might want you in part to make me feel whole, because somehow
somewhere along the line, I've made you keeper
of the things I wish I could be: giver
of simple tacit glory
to an even simpler stuttering mind.


If you could grant me affection, assurance,
intimacy, part of my head makes me think
that I could be free, that I would let myself be yours
for sure,
though I know from experience
that I am loathe to give myself away:
I may be romantic but you know I ain't no Juliet.
that in some perfect world your love could give
validation, finally some peace for my piecemeal mind;
that eventually in touching your skin to mine
every atom of me
would vibrate against your touch,
given the opportunity to feel it honestly.
But in reality, I think that's asking too much.


It's time to give up.




For the moment it seems I can't untangle my spinning head
into sweet little words, at least
maybe not this. It's too
boisterous, filled with my long forgotten feelings
hidden in a deep grey ancient mist.
grey cells harbouring old insecurities


I've taken to calling it 'infatuation'
because that's the least frightening of all definitions.
But with you this isn't something I fear,
because you're the only one who loves back just
enough, so instead of wrenching
it feels like something softer, warmer, sweet,
reciprocal,
a love that finally circles complete.


It seems like in the end
I can't make this poem work; this is too internal,
too filled with little parts
that make me up, senseless parts
that destruct on contact with air.
One day I will explain it
in a way that doesn't scare you, hopefully,
and maybe we can share
this silly feeling
that draws me to you so strongly.
But for now, keep close
and maybe together we can make something;
stay close, and my heart will let you in
if you want it.

Black Rooks

All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.
All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do too much.
All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do too little.
All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do evil.
Evil will triumph.
Evil will triumph.
Evil will triumph.
And we'll all be eaten away by black rooks.

Spoils will be enjoyed.
Blood will be shed.
And we'll all be allowed to let out all those beasts
that we've kept locked away in our heads.
Symbols and heroes are all very well,
but when there's a gun to your brow
you'll moan and offer your soul up to sell.

I mean, after all - what do we have to look forward to?

Scrabble in the filth, with it up to your elbows.
Scrub it away with some convenient lies.
Where does good go when evil wings flutter?
In a mouth that can't speak, in a pair of dark eyes.

All that it takes for good to triumph is for evil men to do nothing.
All that it takes for good to triumph is for good men to do enough.

Is this enough?
Will it ever end?
I've got no more self to send,
and we'll all be eaten away by black rooks.

Savannah's 18th

Today is Savannah's 18th birthday. I just wanted to note down in a tangible, enduring way (and without dressing it up) that Savannah is more important and essential to me than any given appendage I possess, and that I love her with every particle of me that is capable of feeling love.

Happy birthday, my dear. I hope I'm around for many, many more.

Eyes

I'm agonizing over these words.
I don't know why.
I'm just going to let them flop out of me.
Flop.

I had a feeling this would be how it would end.
There's no sustaining that kind of blind hope.
It should have died a long time ago.
But dark men in dark rooms forced it onward.
Staggering along with sutured flesh
and unconsecrated eyes
that saw the world with a new, horrible light.
It should have been left to die.

Somewhere somebody is cleaning out her wounds.
Somebody somewhere is humming a tune with blue lips.
Somebody somewhere is drowning in a pair of eyes that should have been left to die.
Somebody.
Somewhere.

There's a lot to bear.

I have seen them in the darkness
jade sirens
with a thousand blood-flecked eyes.
They'll feed upon my certainty
wretched web-spinners all
and I cannot begrudge them.
But they should have been left to die.

Hold me in your arms and desire me for five fucking minutes.
I can't meet those eyes anymore.

Writing by Daylight.

Writing by daylight is so different
from my usual habits, writing by night and allowing
sweet sorrows and esoteric diatribes to spill out of me
unashamed of them, as if the absence of the sun
would imbue my words with some sort of hallowed
respectability that by daylight they lacked.
It's bullshit, of course.
But in the light of day I feel as though
things aren't quite as revered as they are by nightfall.
Not just my writing, either.
I read secret histories of arrogant, stuffed-shirt
boys masquerading as men
who kill their friends and sit through funerals
in a narcotic, classical haze.
I read of Bacchic frenzies and Furies
and I am reliably informed that a young man
has no knowledge of what a Roman or a Greek
is.
What is more, he has no intention of finding out.
The words seem hollower to me, less real.
As if out from under the cloak of night
in the harsh scrutiny of the daylight
they cease to hold their horror, their tension.

I should steer this towards a conclusion
but daylight doesn't seem to demand that
which is a novel change.
So I won't.

Alfie

There's a lot on my mind at the moment, a lot of hatred. I'm going to try and take a step away from it, though, and busy myself writing sweet nothings in a tight structure.


I'll flash a grin and pour a drink.
The blood-scent heady, clear and strong.
Let's drown our sorrows and not think.

The clientele have fresh grave-stink.
Among them I do not belong.
I'll flash a grin and pour a drink.

And all these beauties, dressed in mink.
All these beauties laugh so wrong.
Let's drown our sorrows and not think.

But you, my angel on the brink.
Your words are tired, clapped-out song.
I'll flash a grin and pour a drink.

And though your flesh still holds some pink,
I know your life-blood hasn't long.
I'll flash a grin and pour a drink.
Let's drown our sorrows and not think.

alright

At your command.

We're no longer children.
Our flights of fancy can take form.

               Will they?

Should they?

Is this the way?

I mean, as a kid I dreamed of picking up a weapon

        flinging a spell

                       battle-cries and victory.

None of that is a possibility, and yet I dreamed it

knowing that it could never be and dreaming it anyway.

Training my mind to believe that the things we desire

most in the world can never blossom into fruition. 

But that's wrong.

              Times have changed.

     I can raise a hand and change the world.

I am the centre of a vibrant

                 powerful

                                 universe.

The clear, razor sharp mind of a being

    in whom will and emotion are one.

Will this be okay?

I mean, is it for me to say

            "I wish to rule."

And have that wish obeyed?

Would it be fitting for the world to turn on a dime

and falter in time

to fulfill that will?

              I mean, I have the skill.

                   Who's to say?

But it might happen anyway.

Help me, if you can.

      you're bound because you think you don't deserve it.

Help me, if you can.

     there's a will behind me that I will not allow to subsume you.

Help me, if you can.

    together we can change the world and be something more.

Help me, if you can.

We're no longer children.

          It's our turn to decide what that means.

And I choose my dream.

There's no other path.

I Must Be The Answer

This probably won't make any fucking sense but I have to get it out. I don't have a choice.


Two women kiss, and one is consumed.
Curse this dual perception, it forces me
to view you both as people apart
but when you unite, when your flesh and fires
unite
one is consumed, and two become one.
Not extinguished, but blazing brighter and brighter
until you spill into one another and you're all I can see.
You're careening.
Karine.
Marlene.
I do apologise for mentioning you by name.
But you're dancing on my brain
and the words are signaled to my hands without
intervention from common sense.
It's as if I'm going insane.
But I don't want it to stop.
Do I dare? Do I dare?
Will you care? Is it fair?
The arrogance of it all to extend a hand
into that maelstrom of ice and fire,
of serenity and emotional ruin
of light and dar -
No. Of light and light.
That ocean, that maelstrom, that pool of blood.
To extend a hand into it all
your union
and beckon softly.
Come with me.
Come with me.
You are immortal, and I must be the answer.
I cannot live without this.
Blaze brighter and burn away my shadows.
You're so beautiful.

A man sits on a rock by the shore with the body of a boy.
It won't obey. It dries out at times and the bones creak
with a horrific noise and unfurling when he walks
to reflect the turmoil of his heart and head
that, beside the heartbeat of the ocean seems impossibility.
He can't be from here, or anywhere that I can go
because to make sense he has to have ascended
or fallen.
The velocity he's experienced has changed him so much
made him foreign and strange
but lent him a certainty in his bones and body that a mortal man would lack.
Please don't attack in return.
Your skill with words is without peer
and I'm no seer
so I speak not of futures, but of truths.
There will be a reckoning. You weren't for my hands
and I still feel like I'm robbing Heaven or Hell of property
and for debts of that nature there can be no escape.
But I don't want it to stop.
Do I dare? Do I dare?
Will you care? Is it fair?
The arrogance of it all to extend a hand
towards a being so alien and beautiful
so foreign and potent
so inhospitable and uncari -
No. Inhospitable and caring.
You are a desert, an ocean, a tundra.
To extend a hand towards the unknown
your coiled soul
and beckon softly.
Come with me.
Come with me.
You are immortal, and I must be the answer.
I cannot live without this.
Change it all and make me feel inexplicable.
You're so beautiful.

A legion awaits my word with an imbalance of bodies.
There aren't enough of them for the amount of people present
so the people jostle for space, finding room in the flesh that's
standing strong and sure before me, ready to assume the roles
that the people within force upon them
strange, marvelous, and destructive.
This can't be a real occurrence.
You're a singer in a body that I wouldn't have chosen.
Filling my home with the beauty of your voice.
You're a broken man with years of broken dreams
But you'll still pick up that sword and say my name.
And you're a lover who wants to be a child,
and you're confused so you grow claws so wild,
and you're a girl who wants to be a god,
and you're a sinner searching for a truth,
and you're a friend and I made you this thing.
But I don't want it to stop.
Do I dare? Do I dare?
Do you all care? Is this all fair?
The arrogance of it all to extend a hand
towards this legion so potent and creative
so trusting and so pure
so different and so wro -
No. Different and right.
You are an army, a family, a holy love.
To extend a hand towards your unity
our collective imagination
and beckon softly.
Come with me.
Come with me.
You are all immortal, and I must be the answer.
I cannot live without this.
Unfurl at my word and make me feel powerful.
You're so beautiful.

You're all so fucking beautiful.
I must be the answer.

Sallow

Sallow-skinned.
You are my sweetest downfall.
Let it fall where it may.
Under that leather you're nothing.
But your eyes -
your eyes!
Your eyes blaze blue.
And pierce me through.

They didn't mention you, before.
And now there's nothing else.
So let it burn out.
Billowing in.
And you will never change.
Because you never were.
Sallow-skinned.

Letter to Self

To Jason.

I imagine you'll be about twenty-five by now. If you're not, maybe just skim this. It isn't intended for you yet.

You are listening to Regina Spektor at 10:41pm on Wednesday the 11th of July, 2012. This is assuming that time works that way, of course. I mean, you're probably doing something else right now simultaneously in the future-land that you're occupying.

Well, of course you are, you're reading this. How novel.

If you haven't changed much, you're probably rolling your eyes at my attempt to funny. That's fair. I'd like to take the chance to point out that technically speaking everything on this blog is a letter to you. Look how much time you've spent writing letters to yourself! You should be very grateful.

I decided to write a more direct letter in part because Stephen Fry was so unsettled by his. Do you remember it? It was something along the lines of "You aren't the real Stephen Fry, I am, because what I'm feeling right now is a thousand times more powerful than anything you will, and you'll spend the rest of your life chasing the shadow of what you felt when you were twenty." Edit out Stephen Fry's name and insert my own, and that's something like what I want to say to you.

I also want to apologise, because I won't be capable of sustaining these high passions for long. I'm burning away, but you know that. I know that. Eventually I'll take something or do something or decide something that will doom what I'm feeling right now. Perhaps I'll drop out of uni, lose a friend who was very dear to us, take a narcotic that wasn't properly prepared, get hooked on booze, lash out in anger - or simply slip into a solipsistic haze. You, future Jason, you already know whatever it was that we did. You're probably living in the aftereffects of it, struggling to piece together some sort of life that reflects the sheer unrelenting joy of the years that I'm selfishly occupying right now. I'm going to take the chance to apologise for my part in whatever happened. We won't ask the Jason of that time to come along and apologise, because I'm sure that he'll be very busy having a nervous breakdown or something. But we know that he's sorry, and that I'm sorry, and hopefully you can forgive us.

I can't think of what else to say to you. Look around at the surrounding blog posts. They probably mean nothing by this point, or maybe they mean everything. I'm not sure. I hope you're doing well. More importantly, I hope you're still writing. You're surrounded by beautiful things - both right now, and wherever you are. Probably best that you don't lose sight of that.

Keep everybody around you happy and alive, even if they don't want you to. That's in keeping with a promise that I've made to you, and that you have to uphold. If you don't, you might as well stop hanging on, because what's the point?

Speaking of the point, you might have lost sight of it, but have faith that you'll find it again, because the years that we'll have on this earth are limited and when we slip into death, united at last, I'd like it to be with the knowledge that we hung on for as long as we could.

I apologise if the tone of this message is overly morbid. It's because I can't imagine a time in my life where I'm happier than I am now, so I'm phrasing all of this as if I'm comforting somebody for a loss. I suppose in a way, with that attitude, I must be. I'll take solace in the fact that right now, I'm vibrant and content and powerful and that's all we have ever wanted.

I'll be in touch, unless you drink away your memories. Pay no attention to the formative years, by the way - they don't hold anywhere near as much sway over me as we think they do. Well, not anymore.

I adore you, and I always will - with a high and fiery passion, the most you'll ever feel.

Love,
Jason.

Make Me Young

Breakfast of Champions + Regina Spektor = something.


The skies are grey and they break my fall.
And then the clouds will cover all.
There's something transmitting through the air.
It isn't right and isn't fair.
Long life to you.
But the rest of us will make do.


And then I woke up and I thought to myself
"That's quite enough."
Then I woke up, I woke up,
"Time for things to change."


I'm not a set of goddamn numbers.
I'm not a goddamn god.
I'm not a dogdamn dog.
I'm not a set of goddamn numbers.


I'm not a broken text machine.
I'm not fractured, I'm not obscene.
I'm not a faulty feel machine.
I just can't tell you what I mean.
There are cogs and there are clogs
But please
don't throw me to the dogs.


And then I woke up and I thought
"No."
And then you saw and went to rise
And then it had to go.


I'm not a set of goddamn numbers.
I'm not a broken clock.
I've got a good-sized cock.
I'm not a set of goddamn numbers.


I watched the dog leap at my Maker.
I thought he was a faker.
I couldn't help but make a sound
As he fled from me, from my hound.
I don't think it was wrong.
There's no place here that he belongs.


And then I woke up and I thought to myself
"I'm nothing without him."
I woke up, I woke up, I woke up.
Long live the king.

An Apology

So, blog. I'd like to apologise. My time and creative energies are being completely consumed by roleplaying, rehearsals, and my plans for submitting a play next year. So I suppose this is me announcing some sort of hiatus because I simply don't have enough energy to write things on yo -

Yeah, okay, no.

She holds back a sob,
As if she has to.
As if there's something there to hide away
something that won't dare to stay
if she cries.


Pale lights in mournful eyes.
But I won't leave her.
I'll never breathe right
without those eyes
those mournful eyes.
I can make her laugh again.
I can sing a song or two.
I can make her laugh again.
I can tell her something true.


Foolish-face tears in my baby's eyes.
Foolish-face tears for my pointless lies.


Strike a match across my face
And you'll illuminate this place.
I'm awash with tears of blue,
I'll spread my wings and think of you.


Pale lights in mournful eyes.
But I won't leave her.
I'll never breath right,
without those eyes,
those suntouched eyes.


Foolish-face tears in my baby's eyes.
Foolish-face tears for my pointless lies.


She lets out a sob.
As if she has to.
As if there's something there that she'll let out.
Something the world's all about.
And she cries.

Give Us

Aaaaaaaaargh!

Give us a little love, I'll never have enough.
I'll cry out! We never had enough.

I shake with screams unspoken.

There's never going to be enough.

I don't care.

I'll cry out.

Hah!

The Rider

Pre-ambling out of a rich red haze
Stony-throat silence abounds in the air.
Paler than the deadest and redder than the East.

Corpse-white? Why?

With all the resonant timbre of a pit.

Sunset damages fade and falter under moon;

Merciful moon, mother moon.

His whispers fade away in soot and smoke.

Does it hurt him?

But the sun can only scream.

A recluse that impresses upon

the twisted-up alleys of refuse and scorn.

The able stance of the recanted morn

How does he bear it?

Resets in regal manse, white corpse adorned.

Treble curs't, and treble bound in woe.

Covered in earth and violet spring.

Zie sleeps in frigid earth and under stone.

Ach, ich... du... but who?

He treads lightly, but attends.

Aroused of the singular sun, he attends.

Seduce

When shall I present myself to you, so that we can deal with those insistent lusts? Of course, I'll defer to my elder...

When? There are only two times of worth, now and then. This is now. If then should knock at our door, don't fret. You'll know what it is to greet it.

Well, now is an impossibility. Is it so wrong for me to think about a then when I am satisfied? It does no harm for me to negotiate for that then now, does it?

And yet can Chronos be swayed by the softly pleading voice? Is not time the great leveler that makes dust of both emperor and swine? Can you negotiate with a river? Do your words halt the tides? Such things are such as they are. So think of then, by all means, and think of it with fond heart and swift hands, but do not doubt that time will be only as time is wont to be.

You're delightfully evasive, but in your evasion you've laid out my path for me. I can see that my considerable charms shan't work across this imperfect format, where you have time to collect yourself and consider and resist the intoxicating delight I can provide. So, like a grubby Orpheus, I'll plead my case in person, and hope that the enchantment I weave is enough to override your reticence. 

By all means plead, sweet Orpheus. I'm sure you'll do it well. Speak to me of then, and bear the fragile dream of fire against the cold earth of control.

What contest that? I am fire, youth and beauty both in frenzied, sensual union. The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and though I may not be long for the world at the rate I live, I do burn brightly. But the fires of my flesh are sweet, my breath is hot, and my voice aches to cry out your name. Will you not forsake the cold earth for this? You would be mad not to.

Is it madness? Or duty? Earth's nature is to last, to stay. It is not given to hold and then release. Could you bind your flame to earth? Be the molten heat of the planet's desires?

No.

The road is closed, the door is barred. So dance for me, little slip of flame. If nothing else, the earth is watching.

Little slip? Were I as brittle and stubborn as the earth, I might be offended. But fire consumes, it does not begrudge. Alas, the heat of my passions may wane as I dance for you, were I left to burn too long without fuel. I cry out for some sign that these violent delights will have violent ends, for without that sign, I burn without cause.

Anything?

The Broken

Haven't the faintest idea if this is the right structure, but I had a stab at imitating it without looking it up.

The broken come a-marching, ten by ten.
The vibrant call of horn-song fills the air.
And fills the ears of shameful, torn-flesh men.

They march to war that swears it will be fair.
A promise that they do not dare to hope
Will be fulfilled in earth barren and bare.

Around their necks are scraps of knotted rope.
Held fast against the day that they will die.
Without that scrap, there's no way we could cope.

They see their names inscribed across the sky.
They hear their crimes embedded in the horn.
They do not stop and stare and wonder why.

And then they crest the hill and they are gone.
They crest the hill - don't follow! - they are gone.

I'm Trying

Don't know why I wrote this out, as it can only really be sung.

Follow me out of here,
I can take you anywhere.
Come away.
Search my face.
This is the time.

I'm trying to help you.
I'm trying to reach you.
I'm trying to help you.
You need to get out of here.

You've hidden away in a place that wants to strip this away.
Take my hand, you fucking idiot.
Come away.
Search my face.
This is the time.

I'm trying to help you.
I'm trying to get to you.
I'm trying to find you.
You need to get out of here.

There isn't a way out except with me.
Sometimes I heal you, sometimes I hurt.
There isn't a way out of here except with me.
I can feel you drifting in the air.

I'm trying to help you.
I'm trying to get to you.
I'm trying to help you.
You need to get out of here.

I'm trying to help you.
I'm trying to get to you.
I'm fighting to get to you.
I need to get in with you.
I need to break you out of here.
I need you.
I'm trying.

The Firmament

Under the firmament we talk of sex.

The furious, rutting urges of our bodies

Weigh upon our tongues and tempers.

As the unceasing ocean beats a furious tempo to match

The wild and untempered fervour of our hearts.

Under the firmament we talk of vitality.

The forces that hold us upright and alive

Weigh upon our movements and missives.

As the unyielding ocean beats a measured tempo to match

The steady-strong endurance of our hearts.

Under the firmament we talk of obligation.

The ties and chains that encircle our souls

Weigh upon our loyalties and love.

As the uncaring ocean beats a mocking tempo to match

The guilty unrefined joy of our hearts.

Under the firmament we talk of nothing.

Nothing between sky and sand will harm.

Weigh yourself against yourself now.

As the endless ocean beats an endless tempo to match

The holy, ceaseless beating of our hearts.

A Gentleman's Word

Are you looking for a cure, Mister Jekyll? Because I work for both of you, and you know that isn’t part of the agreement between you two. I’d hate to have to tell him.

You will tell him nothing. There is work to be done yet.

The devil’s work! I’m always listening, you stupid bastard! Serve our ends or I’ll come a-calling…

Even you can drown.