The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

 

In the endless choirs, the bells of new years day,

the ball slowly falling to the ground like a cheap dream

collapsing;

 

in the meadow behind the courthouse wall,

in the words so frail that they crumble in

mouths like too much flesh, rotted and rancid;

 

in the eye of a needle you can see it.

 

A land where all is just and equal, where women

pass freely, their words on their breasts

 

and where toil has been abolished in favor of truth and good fortune.

 

In this field all is free,

 

no black bodies with hair like mine

and eyes like mine face down before

the twisted fingers of the beast,

 

ready to cage all dreams and abandon faith with hands

that are not it's own. The world played

with strings of steel, no,

 

forget the white eyes of sorrow.

 

Forget all that should be remembered;

on New Years dance the night away

 

with spirits high with wine and pheromones,

lust and heartbreak,

 

you cannot take those with you.

 

The women will be free,

the animals will take flight,

the cages shall release the

orphans of a dream

 

to dawning's light,

a golden morning.

 

The bells ring foolish, blistering,

earsplitting but they can hear

you too.

 

When fools run the world the bells shall weep

and in the armaggedon of our days, they will

triumph.

 

Until then we must march;

 

 

 

 

until the women lose their girdles and

their hair is wild and new,

 

until the animals have found new homes in ancestral

forests, caves and trees untouched by man,

 

until my people have left this world and found

a hallway of kings, well above the foolish clouds

at the throne of a weeping nebula, tears

of joy throwing star showers for

an ebullient throng.

 

We must march: let the bells chime glory in our way.

In the golden dawn of a twilight age, we must

march until all mankind marches together.

the ambrosia of fools

The Ambrosia of Fools

 

A heartsick giant, the truest hand;

a scion of hatred, awful night;

 

in sickness and in health the stalker wraiths,

his own shadow an ailment before him.

 

Lest he fall, fall with him. Lest

the pillars of men crash loudly in the

abandonments of natural mysticism,

 

lest your soul be lifted to the cloudless sky,

the stars in love with the mirrored lakes

a haze of fog, smog and death.

 

A heartsick piriah, no; forget him not.

 

The birds cast shadows on their line,

the birds cannot see but meals of gnashing

spiders; the birds cannot love

 

with arms flailing to embrace a brokenhearted

someone in the coming of the dawn.

 

The empty abyss is staring, waiting for it's prey.

 

What will you say when the last poet dies?

When the music has left on the black moon

sunset dancing over wicked peaks of sky scratching

masouleoms in the belly of the heartless city?

 

What will you say when your fathers fall from the

heavens with the weight of murder? They will leave

an imprint of a white hand marking ties that have

unthreaded under the microscope of the opaque moon.

 

When you will lust, you will find a beautiful damnation,

the withering taste of nectar, the ambrosia of fools;

 

when the satelites of men crash from the sky like meteors of

love, only you will count the bodies that you

have left behind in age and only you

can twine the threads of fraying reason;

 

the world is more than love,

a timeless, wicked thing.