The God-Loved Drunkard
So you may list careful, sow the seeds of boon
the deathly twine; the quiet lovers wail.
Praise be to the martyred saints, the timid watchers
the burblers of crooked verse, the wretched children,
those with star crossed eyes, bleating for the
sacred Child, the one whom I have forgotten.
Lust preys the foolish, the careless;
the twisted womb plagued with horseshoe stricken
creatures. Pray not the tired obscenity,
intoxicate the spirit.
Of lust, of wine, of poetry;
the grandest sacrement is a wasted hour,
the sour of broken promise, the fire next time.
The grandest hour awaits with flags twin ripple
ragged, thrust coldly in the autumn sky like
a secret accord rolling hills of green screaming
So you may be in love, be intoxicated.
The lifeless spirits roam helplessly with tired moan, death,
death, dishonor, roll, righteous teachers with dried tongues
in the winter of their years.
Locusts swarm, their wings beating a sonata of love and haze,
wasted days wither as a swan song to the spring and
a call to arms for the homeless rays of a pirouetted sunshine,
the one whom I have forgotten.
For the love of the most high, intoxicate the spirit,
bless the quiet lovers unafraid in their sin,
bless the wicked liars, the petulant and the wasted.
Bless the brokenhearted in a hell-hole gomorrah, their twisted
fingers gnarled in the crooked embrace of an undefeated love
and triumph, those who a livid hellmouth will swallow
in the last days of men before the coming of the Lord.
When all fails, when all falls and wallows, bless them with an
inebriated tongue singing poetry from the bellows of a God-hearted
nowhere and praise, be forgotten.
Be forgiven in your sin. For transgression is the path to God;
the sinless shall be shunned for their grave impiety to the Lady
of the wandering spirit and the suffering mad will rise from
their foolish ashes; only they will be fit to kiss the feet
of the Lord.