It’s Poetry Time, Boys and Girls.



Sometimes pain is a goad.

When the mind wanders,
round and round,
lost in the ichorous morass
of unraveling, of a heart stuck

pierced like a pig, writhing and bloody
beneath the hunter’s blade,

sometimes pain is a goad.

Murkiness in the mind
interior madness
the weight of a heart
heavy as the grave

pain’s sharp clarity brings purchase,
puts the tools of regeneration
back into charred and aching hands.

It is a gift, though not, I’d warrant,
for those small of courage.

Fuck those with no courage.
They surely try to do the same to us.

My world is a careful construct
Two parts courage, one part grit,
and a bitter helping of ‘fuck you’
to serve as clay and mortar.
It is brittle but rooted
and sometimes hard.

When the acid weariness becomes too much,
and my head transforms
into a sea of black, scorching fire,
cracking open like a nut,
vomiting up the residue of Gods
and the passing remnants of spirits,
and I am unable to allow myself,
to hear Odin’s voice,
because all language then is foreign,
and hurtful…

then, the Raven Master allows Another
into that sticky, brutal abyss.
Then, it’s Dionysos Who walks
far and proud into those desolate acres

to take my hand,
to cradle my soul,
to drive off the beasts in my mind,
(and sometimes those without)
and lead me up again
up onto higher ground.

He taught me a thing,
as I clawed through the shadows
shadows fleeting grey and fair:
whispered it, looking off in the distance,
hair flowing to his ass,
rippling like frenzied serpents,
glittering like the skin of dragons,
and hiding monsters.

Looking out over the landscape of my mind,
I saw it then as a vast and dangerous sea,
I knelt at His feet and He said :

peace does not protect.

And He laughed, a glorious sound
I laughed too as He continued:

There is no time to be fragile. There is only time to dance,
to break the earth apart with stomping frenzy,
to break yourself apart too,
and compel all who catch your scent to join in.
Cast off your human skin,
and let your beast run free.

What does it matter if others are afraid?
The world is nowhere nearly as small as they seek to make it.
Fear will always be there. Fuck it.
Let fear have its prey.
There are better things upon which
for you to feast.

Dance until only the rhythms remain.

And in His presence I heard a savage howling roar
And laughter, such joyous devastation
And I realized the roaring was me.

Posted on October 24, 2015, in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. WoW


%d bloggers like this: