teleportation

A bitter end, a parched new land

The bane has bruised the battered hand

That gripped the rein with wielded knife

To sever sense of senseless strife

Behooved, the bane of hope draws near

Audiacious bond to save the year

From want of haste and hastened end

To gardens purged of hateful tend

While charisma shrieks off - a vampire
In the rearview of ambition’s slow-ride -
Hopes, pinned, fall by pride’s wayside.
Lessons to be unlearned,
Doors unopened and blown apart,
Stars crossing paths to sink ships
Without taking down names,
Ships crafted with fool’s timber
That some mope called a spine
‘cept they’ll rupture with the rest
Like every sea-unworthy skiff
In this ocean of abandon
Splits apart dry at the bow
One or two cracks at a time
Propagates with best behavior
Terminates at mildest manners
As the iceberg laughs to the captain,
“It was just a bad time to collide”

and so i shall weep
mine eyes dried from
such years of dissolution
and tumultuous terrors
under the false light
of dead saints and
your "audacious hope"
such brilliant words
but we are too stupid
or careless to pay attention
becuase you are not
a trillion watt sound byte
or a cheeseburger in paradise
and so i shall weep for you

The eight hundred-pound heliocentrist
In the room of discord’s shamelessness
The room of tumultuous new haunts -
His thirst for my disease won't run dry
While nothing but sardonic twists revolve
About his woefully delusioned head

He was no dim or shining star in heaven
Leading me not into taunting temptation
Just into the same old disillusioned frays
He was the saddest brother I ever knew
Wearing himself away with a liar’s rigor
And a starving lion’s emboldened heart

He’s the strongest bow across my back
As I’ve lost love and trust in his every word
Such a cord splinters hard when it does
Any future of us is the dimmest of cold worlds
And I cheer it on with vigor and frigid breath
For he is everything I’ll ever despise in myself

The ultimate empirical error
Still evades the marauders’ minds
As they pillage for spoils unknown
And plough fields of collected mania
Millennia past the dusty days
When phony prophets became legends,
And “God’s wrath” kept man in check.

This is the Abrahamic envelope
Within which the deranged exist
To argue to the death for an “existence”
That their own desperation created,
So contrived by their own sadness
So devoted to a “better” life hereafter
That they fail to know the beauty in this one.

These laughably obtuse creations
Cannot supplant scientific rigor,
And to conceptualize the unknowable,
And to thump withering books of old,
And to speak of evidence for omnipotence,
When reality points in every other direction
Is to ward off an evolution of the spirit.

Our apostasy is a sensible diversion
To the grandest cosmic absurdity
And bare-knuckled, we must fight off
The witless and faltering argument:
That “if such a Grand Tale was spun,
And bought into by so many billions,
Then there must be something to it.”

Six was the peasants coming home to roost
Theirs were haggard souls in need of a boost
Humble but not alone - their self split in two
Since “daggers in hearts” was a tenet untrue
‘Twas a false-light year for a fool’s rising up
And drinking sans haste from a wiser man’s cup

Six was “false warmth and a whiskey sermon”
Confusion was all that recovery determined
And the angst misdirected at a brother sans arms
Was not but a chasm that swallowed old charms
For the comeback kid has laid waste to my concerns
With such lucid simplicity that desecration adjourns

The miniscule flutter, frozen to their cores -
They will die quick with warmth’s passing,
Fall’s crack propagations: opining is wrong,
You are “against” us if you love different colors -
Wrung hands, terrified, these leaderless disbursements.

The miniscule flutter, stomping on the shards -
Repugnant reasoning; re-formed realpolitik,
And all this time we’ve been asleep at the wheel
With the blood of our brothers in paraplegics’ arms
And our dufus commander’s calamitous communion.

Are you the devil on an angel’s shoulder?
Is your smile wild, your reasoning terse?
Are your melees scripted by foolhardy verse?
Your spirit’s is a pyre that rages without smolder.

My friend, my friend, my gone-away friend,
You were a giant’s stepping stone
Through regrettably widened waters
Crossing youthful abandon to true maturity.

I have since leapt from that rock,
And there was a faceplant along the way,
But you’d have appreciated the final dismount
Of my wild, flailing hop to Self and settled ground.

Misfortune’s deepest grieving, your starlit departure
But you’d have no more of this frivolous pen
And I’d leave behind such fatemongered depictions
Of tiresome lores and oaths to the departed
Such ill-equipped lifeboats to've sunk so damn fast.

With a short gasp's wallow and a quiet, calm thrash
Against these rocks lapped by hesitant waters
From a sea that never gives us our heroes back,
I will no longer reverently spurn you
For living yourself to a fool's death.

Time rolls like anchors now
On foggily obscured moors
Sprawling pyres redden
The dew drenched grass
To a lonely glowing hue
The sky’s dying, wide horizon
Yawns a blood-dried magenta
Blood drawn from old wells
Roiling with resistance
Wrought with ill rewards
Brimming from years of falsehoods
I will sing and bleed there nevermore

False warmth and whiskey sermons,
You abound with the quietest echoes.
An art, an absolute silence –
An artful absolutist’s defiance,
Emboldened by a tenuous heart
Sintered from vengeful sinews…
You must have told the finest stories.
A stone’s throw from reveling in exactitude,
I’m a mosquito in your venus’ flytrap -
Yet your thirst for disease has run dry;
And you’ve the crookedest gait around here
No matter how straight you claim to have flown.

I’ve seen your kind,
With the kind right eye,
Dancing with a scowl,
Luminescence, stony warmth,
All along with a smile,
That father’s knowing wink,
She’s a delirium, undead,
A wheezing bag of flesh,
Needs a tasteless, boring death,
And a final, florescent breath.

I am a man, cringing and writhing
With something to say,
But ill means to portray,
Walls wedged between
Drive us light years away.

Now here’s a man, drifting and claiming
That math is the reason,
And obsession a season,
Such walls are mere figments;
Deception unpleasing.

So it’s a spot, eternal and churning,
“Challenging” with silence,
Punishing sans violence,
The walls are of flame;
I'm scorched by defiance.

A tourniquet blindfold has tamed the tempest’s eye,
Yet bombs and their burdens fall fast from the sky,
With the roiling rhythms of their wrenching refrains,
Singing “these traumas are deserved, and loath to be slain,”
With that haggard scowl’s refusal to allow peace to exist,
And to forbear the inevitable - to cease but not desist,
Our hearts pelt away after centuries of this pollution,
Yet in the treasonous face of truth, we cling to absolution.

Bitchcraft has worked out so well for you
When you turn to glance over your shoulder
At the meandering messes you left behind,
The smile in your deadened white eye gleams
Like the charm you threw into a winter’s wind,
Knowing full well it'd pierce out the eyes of another
As he walked cautiously into your hailstorm
As he found himself pulled towards your maelstrom
What a way to deaden what we never really had

Swear to the high roads – ‘twas a diatribe,
Sought not with cut teeth as a tenable triumph,
No smarmy solution to a salient new boredom.
This straight, narrow path has found me so resolved,
Bent briefly back into an admirable geometry…

Or was it a brief tryst with evil uncle demon?
That cackling fuck, laughing right along on mute,
His yellow teeth and mindless gaze all pulsing pupils,
Tugging wildly with no relent at my hard-earned stake,
At this river of resolve, roiling rife with “due diligence”?

Greedy Uncle Allic…a fiendish oaf of an oracle -
Every moment in his gaze, a trial by the soul’s fire.
His insane release has swallowed stronger men than I,
But I can’t shoot him up with poison or deaden him for good.
At last, time and truth will rise up to be this great foe’s foes.

And as foes we shall persevere.
And as foes we shall prevail.

Cognizance and the stupid houseflies
Of rapturous benevolence -
You’ve lived hard, I say it true,
But of life’s dramatic little swills,
Mine have died harder still.

I wonder how time rolls now
On those foggily obscured moors
Their yawning sunsets reddening
A dying horizon - a blood-dried magenta
Blood drawn from a brothers’ fallout
Blood that always tasted like falsehood

That sworn-off sky, westward and wasted -
Rock-strewn and rowdy,
Righteously wicked -
Will not feed these lungs again
For I’ve posted troubled bail
From its cold-minded sheriff

He ruled those lawless lands
With a stiff left shoulder
And two stubborn hips
That wouldn’t bend far
In any relevant direction
He’d shoot you dead for a laugh

And when it was needed -
Needed all but the most -
I stopped keeping time
For time was all but lost
So I lost a brother without arms
So I lost the brother I couldn’t be

It’s a light-minded ponderance,
This flickering, dusty discourse –
Putting slippery words where we once
Forged false warmth and flooded to oblivion
Now those years are gone away and dead
And the best of this life lies straight ahead

Six and a thousand leagues above the fray
One half of a finally luminescent revolution
Whispers from within have been directing the way
And I frown not on those worlds wasted below
For I shan’t have hate in my heart or on my hands
I frolicked there once; it almost killed me, you know.