A Memory of Light

I want to write poetry about the Wheel of Time coming to an end, but I can't.

I just can't.

I am too raw, it was too much.

I just thought I'd come here and leave some sort of marker for future me.

This is it. Today was the day that you finished the best fantasy series ever created.

You can try writing about it when you're a bit less raw, but it'd be pointless.

Go and have a smoke and a sleep and a cry, you idiot.

Breatheblink

There's a moment where
the inhaled breath
teetered on the brink of death
and then was followed through.

The pipes that keep his chest connected
have been wrecked and unattended.
Fire blossomed, undefended
he sunk down to you.

For a moment things were perilous.
Unsure, uncertain -
dangerous.
For a moment,
things were on the brink.
There is no time to think.

Master of his heart,
He'll force his lips apart
and breathe.

The Caller's Touch

The caller's touch
is not enough.
I fear, I fear.
I fear too much.

The caller's touch
is never soft.
I hear, I hear.
I hear his wroth.

The caller's touch
Is never wrong.
I cry, I cry.
I don't belong.

Dance around the issue,
Dance around the lies.
Fall into the pool
and who knows what you'll find?

The caller's touch
is not enough.
I fear, I fear.
You know too much.

With just a glance
you pin me down.
I'm struggling.
You spin me round.

Fair is foul
and foul? So fair!
I grasp at ghosts;
the empty air.

I'm not myself.
I'm not myself.
I'm not myself.
But in the end this might be just enough
to hold it all together.
I only need to last a bit longer.

Just a bit longer,
and then I can spill my blood.

Dance with fire,
Dance with frost,
and don't let on the game is lost.

.

All of those countless hours that you spent sitting alone at 2am were designed to prepare you for this moment as you cross the floor under the light. I can see the darkness of your bedroom reflected in your eyes. It excites me to know that you festered there for so long. Did you struggle with it? How many tears did you allow yourself to shed? It doesn't matter. Our lips will meet.

Close your eyes.

The Gates of Jericho

I was built for a promised land,
a place of milk and honey.
The weather's perfect all year round,
and boy, it's always sunny.

But I never made it to that land,
I never saw the gates.
I met a man with half a face,
And he told me to wait.

So I did what I was built to do.
I snorted, I fucked and I sinned.
And fifty years my childlike glee,
was music on the wind.

I breathed in deep of cool night air,
I drank the finest wine.
I could have spent forever there,
where everything was fine.

But then he slipped away from me.
I couldn't get him back.
And all at once I met this girl,
And she chose to attack.

She ripped my heart out aimlessly.
And left it on the floor.
A mindless scrabble in the dark,
and then I was no more.

I was made for greater things.
A land of milk and honey.
I'll never reach it after all.
And her, she thinks that's funny.

Cathari

You're a shell.
You're in hell.
So take the pill,
And if it kills -
well.
At least he's got your soul to sell.

Mobile

I know ten thousand things.
Coiled up in my head.
Wrapped in brown paper string.
I know ten thousand things.

I carry untold numbers.
They travel in my pocket.
I travel unencumbered.
Though they should weigh many tons.

Doesn't that bother anyone?

A library of Alexandria in my pocket.
Protected only by apathy.
The man who shuns such knowledge -
well, I guess that fool is free.

The burden grows.
Nobody knows.
But I become more human with each sleeping word,
and I treasure the ones that yearn to be heard.

His Epitaph

My name is unimportant. I know that sounds trite, but I honestly believe that what I have to say is not bound to my identity. In these troubling times I suppose I should offer you something, dear reader - something to pin me in your mind, something to imagine when you hear my words. If that lends extra weight to what I have to say, so be it. I am male, and I would consider myself a man of science, of cause and effect. I wish to understand the world around me and my place in it. I am both of a very great age and quite young. I am surrounded by beautiful things and yet I own very little. I am lonely, very lonely, and yet I have a great many friends. I do not suffer, and yet my heart is heavy, for I bear a very great responsibility.

And I am dying.

Forgive the melodrama - I suppose we are all dying, are we not? Ours is an existence of inches and degrees, and an inexorable slide towards the inevitable atrophy and decay. I chose - at some point in my life, both far in my history and very recently - to accelerate this natural process, with certain toxins and pollutants that I assumed would enhance my life and my happiness. How effective these toxins have been I cannot say - I have lived hundreds of lives, and been hundreds of people across the globe, and yet all of these lives have been bound by a single thread of pollution and mind-addling solutions. I cannot say what my life would have been without corruption, without powders and formulas and befuddling smoke, so I cannot say that I have improved my lot to any great amount, nor have I lived a sad and sorrowful life as a result of these choices - I have nothing to compare it to. What can be proven beyond all doubt, however, is that my natural lifespan has been considerably shortened by exposure to these harmful elements, and I am dying before schedule.

This would not be a problem under most circumstances. Indeed, the choice was made to sacrifice those twilight years of my life a long time ago, and it would be futile for me to rage against the choices made by the younger version of myself. Perhaps he could be faulted for being headstrong, perhaps his choices were folly, and perhaps my premature demise will be a tragic waste. I cannot say. I have not the science nor the faculties to see what path my life would have taken had he abstained, had he been sensible. I must be content with the road that my life has taken, and yet I feel obligated to write this missive, for when my body is gone there will be those who suffer as a result of it...and I have obligation and duty to them, if not to my failing body and my wasted years.

As I sit here and type this missive, there are two women in a nearby bed. One has a heavy heart, and the other is light and fair. I drew them both to me some time ago - perhaps it is fair to say that my great store of pollution drew them forth, and not I. For all my artifice and art I would not deign to call myself a worthy human being - not the sort to entertain and delight women, in any case - and my life has been one largely concerned with my own wants and desires. Yet these two chose, in some small way, to fashion lives for themselves around my example. Physical proximity is not the only choice they have made in regards to my person - they seem to be aping my choices, demonstrating a particular love for my intoxicants and pollutants and the haze that descends along with them. Together we have walked winding, insubstantial paths that cannot be said to truly exist, and I have beheld their naked flesh as it was revealed under biting winds and scorching heat. Their bodies show no signs of decay or atrophy as a result of this treatment, but for their bodies I am worried. I am proof enough that such a life will exact a heavy toll.

And yet...and yet...

One turns over in her sleep and mumbles something as the other stares unblinkingly into the dark. They appear hale and hearty and content with their lot, miserable though it may be at times, and I catch myself wondering - what of the spirit? Consumed as I am with the thought of my own mortality, and the endurance of some part of myself after death, I cannot help wondering what will happen if they follow my path to the conclusion and their flesh gives their souls over to whatever comes next. Will they be stronger for it, or weak and corrupt? I believe that the fate of my own soul rests on incredibly balanced scales, and either end could easily await me, but for them I find it impossible to imagine that anything but purity and strength could result from the final surrender of their bodies. Spiritual energy is not measured in science or in meticulous observation, but these women - ah, these women! These beautiful, precious women. I find it beyond all reason that they could be anything other than perfect, from conception to completion.

It is for this reason that I write this message. My hands grow weary and I fear that the dark is closing in, but I had to set down in an enduring fashion something to assure these women, and any who read my words after I am fallen into darkness, that a life of pollutants and poison for your body does not guarantee a spiritual decay. I speak not for myself - I am filled with doubt as to my own preservation - but being permitted to bear witness to the flowering of these women in vice and earthly satisfaction has convinced me utterly that any soul may flower under such conditions. Therefore, I urge you - fear not the drug, or the sexual act, or the darkness, or the violence! Fear not rage and hate and gratification! Rather, fear the lack of understanding, the lack of control, the surrender of dignity and the abandonment of morality - not the morality of the masses, driven by herd mentality and by fear, but the abandonment of your own personal codes that an intelligent person develops over the course of a life fraught with perils and temptation. Fear doubt, and weakness, and silence! For myself I fear a very great deal, and I fear that my soul will suffer as a result of this fear - but for these women I fear nothing, for they are as glorious as the Sun at noon, and they have the potential to sink far further without tarnishing their strength and glory. My conviction must be enough to bolster their nerve and ensure their spiritual security - but more, it must allow them to see that there is a light in dark places, and that this physical decay I have tempted them towards does not ensure the death of the soul.

If I have done nothing of worth for another in my life, let this be enough.

Mind Vomit

so it's time for another one of these is it well the pressure has been building in there for some time so throw on the italics like a second skin because if things are written in that manner it means they doesn't matter so AWAY WE GO LADIES AND GENTLEMAN AWAY WE GO it doesn't matter what he writes as long as he doesn't stop writing with his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth and his muttered cursewords when he misspells something that he'll have to go back and correct but right now that's all irrelevant, because his mind is on puppets and puppeteers and the stability of the human condition and how if there is something so right and strong and immortal within him how come he is tugged on the winds of fate without any control over his own actions at all? I mean, is there a grand puppeteer that is out there responsible for the great crash and collision as the puppets tumble into each other? If there is, why isn't he expected to untangle the strings afterwards? Why does that fall to the puppets? And why the hell isn't he the puppeteer? That'd be fair. That's be right. That'd be proper. There's ice in his veins and he's willing to do what must be done. But he's soaring, right, he's miles above, and it's at that stage where you can't tell if they're falling or flying because the speed is just too great, whipping past his face at a thousand miles a second and his head fills like it's going to be used as some great vessel, and it swells and swells and swells as he plummets and if it keeps up like this he'll pop, he'll burst and his blood will decorate the skies and everybody will see it from where they sit and watch and care not one jot, not one whit because they've got their own things to worry about and a bloodied boy on high is not something you expect to see every day and he probably got himself into that sort of trouble anyway and as long as he doesn't drip on us it's hardly worth commenting on, really, because these are the ways of the world and the cat keeps licking himself and the poisons are weighing on his mind and now his fingers ache so he's going to stop writing now. He has been writing for two minutes and seven seconds. That's not bad. It's a few more now. But now he will stop.

This House

Here in this house
pleasure is pain.
There's time enough without,
but time's absent within -
and everyone's insane.

I will walk with you into the dark places.
Softly shivering with the potence of my breath.
I will softly collapse by inches in your embraces.

I will fly from you into the deep places.
Roll my eyes back in my head and dive within myself.
I will be dredged from seafloor by your faces.

I will strike at you from the hot places.
Ox-strong and bull-headed I will curse.
I will clutch at you from the cold places.
In my frost-weak grasp you will know worse.

Here in this house
pleasure is pain.
There's time enough without,
and time enough within -
the house that time began.

Song Snippet

Saving this for later, needs reworking and some music but I think I have the seeds of a chorus for a project I'm working on.


Your damsel in distress is a dragon that breathes fire
and all the villagers are looking grim
so saddle up your stallion and ride off so filled with ire
But you don't know the trouble that she's in.

Ebb

I have seen the waves break.
I have tasted the sea's salt.
I have waded into the edges of our great mother.
I have feared her, I have loved her.
I have been drawn out into her.
And here I will remain.

The cries of petrels fill my ears.
The sound of lapping water
on this plank of shoreborn wood
my companion on this sojourn.
Day follows Night,
Night swallows Day,
and still the mother calls to me.

Perhaps she will spit me out.
To crawl upon the dusty land,
the unhallowed tomb for dirt-stained men
to wander under burning Sun
until at last I turn to dust
and am no more
far from the sound of lapping waves.

Or perhaps she will swallow me.
Draw me down to her embrace
where dark things scuttle on sea-floor
there to be consumed
or drift forever on the wistful currents
eternity to explore with sightless eyes.

I have seen the waves break.
I have seen the heavens shake.
I have tasted storm and swell and salt again.
I have fallen forty fathoms
in our mother of the sea.
I have been unmade in the womb of worlds.
And here I will remain.

.

I walked the street at night
to feel like I belonged

I was more alone
than I have ever been

The tide of people swelled
silently slipping me under

Hah!

Oh, mercy
you cry, as you watch
frozen in place
as the balancing act continues
heart in your mouth
guts roiling
- in fact, most internal organs are displaced -
but you can't tear your eyes away
they're locked on, a laser beam
on his
impossibly high above you.

You're not an idiot
you're not going to mistake
this performance for any quantifiable skill
sure, there is pluck
drive
verve
a can-do attitude
but there's no real ability
the performer totters along
stumbles
rights himself somehow
by an unseen agent
a puppeteer pulling his strings
preserving his life
but he smiles and laughs as if the whole thing were a joke.

This isn't the end of the world
sure, he might fall and cave his skull in
his brain might burst
his nerve might fail
and he might plummet
but you'll watch until he finishes on the high-wire
or he falls
because there's really nothing else that he'll allow.

Dear god, is he impressive
but you wouldn't trade places with him for any money
nor he with you
that's his secret

Hah!

Cataclysmic

1) Build a box.

Only the finest materials will do.
Dead wood from a tree
planted over a grave.
Smoke from your lungs,
sweat from your brow
and hinges made of cold steel.

2) Put it in the box.

This bit can be a little tricky.
Blood will probably trickle
onto the floorboards
but don't cry out
this part you have to do
with a smile on your face
or it won't work.

3) Instruct the recipient.

Letting go is easier
once it's out
you'll want to pass it on.
It'll fit with them if you chose well,
but to tend such a thing
will require strict
and careful
instruction.

4) Wait.

Wait.

5a) Watch them tend to the box.

They're doing well.
You're sitting pretty.
Occasionally you allow yourself
to hope.
Return to step 4.

5b) Watch them drop the box.
5c) Watch the box break.
5d) Watch - and don't blink - as it escapes.
5e) Become incoherent and move beyond these steps.

Return to step 4.

Return to step 4.

Return to step 4.

Return to step 1.

Talk

It's easy when you talk.
Scream, cry, shout, mutter.
Words make your world turn.
It's easy when you talk.

It's hard when you live.
Get up, brush teeth, live lie, sleep.
Counting bottles, counting sheep.
It's hard when you live.

It's hard when you love.
Give this, take that, fuck up, make up.
Fall into bed on honeyed sheets.
It's hard when you love.

It's easy when you breathe.
Arms crossed, legs weak.
Inhale deep and exhale brave.
It's easy when you breathe.

Glowing Children

Shots of dark disturbing liquids.
A pipe.
A tree, as the light slowly turns off
on the last day.

Adorn yourselves in splendor
Is it time? Is it time?
The sparks will rise
with spirits
and you will sink
in the eddy of time anew.

Lead them through the darkness,
those broken
singing
glowing children.
Lead them through the darkness.

Lead them back to the light.
There is no stopping them.