shannon

Shannon

 

 

i

 

The bounty of spring turns summer

turns fall and you'll lie beneath

the stars drowning

in guilty words.

 

Praise be the liars.

 

In the summer

I'll be wretched; I'll be

broken in two like

bread between the living

 

and the dead, but entwined

with string, the frayed thread,

 

the bow that drives sun

to building's peak

 

and falling behind the crested

twins, the pillars of men, fell

and glowing with the eternal

 

sheen of sunfall.

 

As summer turns fall,

I will be with you always

 

waiting for barren tombs

to writhe below your belly,

kissing scars that

 

tumble along stretched skin,

my skin broken and bleeding

below the asphalt moon.

 

 

 

 

ii

 

One Up fell down.

He'll rise,

 

we'll all rise in

steeples piled below

refuse and crooked psalm

of latter day saints,

 

those that waltz avenues

with broken teeth and

crusted lips,

 

tired eyes and swollen jaws,

broken hearts and shattered oaths,

wailing below a tired sun

falling into winter praise as

the tired sunset

 

turns gold in the trimester

of morning.

 

 

 

 

iii

 

What shall we mourn?

 

What will we absolve ourselves

of on quiet sundays

 

on triumphant weekends

bleeding love into healing scars,

the keloids of a life spent

 

on heavenly mischief and ebuellient

sin?

 

Shane, the beautiful torment,

come closer in my memory

 

the beautiful Gypsy on

the shoulders of the grand

Sirriani, the shoulders

 

of straddled mountains in graves,

shallow and tear brimmed.

 

Release me from my falsehood,

release me from myself,

my greatest enemy,

 

the shadow of night.

 

My land, the timid glory,

blood and fire

triumph and dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

iv

 

Giraux

 

Girl-child, beautiful heaven,

timeless glory, broken

night; fall softly on broken

boughs beautiful

 

drenched in rain and watered

trenches for the dead

 

and the beautiful mad;

fall softly on my wicked soul;

 

fall haunted on weary shoulders,

weighted with the tired heartbreaks

of a world weighted sorrow.

 

Giraux, break my hands

and bind my heart

 

so that I may never again breathe

my love into the lips of another,

 

blonde platinum misfortune,

a two tongued lie in the tumbling

winds, blowing over

 

verdant hills and spirit

possessed treelines.

 

I am but a figment of a swollen

mind; be free of me,

 

my weary falsehood and

my wicked name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

v

 

 

Rest, in quiet groves, oaks lining

silent night, tread softly

on beaten paths

 

with no name but a false promise,

by a useless tyrant

 

a prophet of an ancient rage.

 

Wicked water rises.

 

Waste not the fetid sacrement,

love your famished soul, for

I cannot love a world so merciless

and cruel.

 

Forget what I have said.

I will drown the roses.

I alone will praise the night.