Triumph sings the piston,
vengeful spins the gear.
Grand, the ship emerges,
glory!—fair the cheer.
Beastlike roars the engine,
Thumos reins the wheel.
Vast as night descending,
bright, as Ra, shall kneel.
metre
Lambda
Phantom climbs are shattered fast,
in ringing steel, to swift surpass,
the transient horse, so ghoulish grey,
its galloping innards in ruby spray.
Not fit to ride, this wretched steed,
what spastic pays no bridle heed.
So set to blade the filthy beast,
and burn its bones, unfit to feast.
What need have we with this carcass.
This blighted, necrotic mare.
The fire is itself,
the runner and the stair.
The Maker
He was a creator of talent rare, whose works earned great reknown,
and jealousy in equal measure, from those much lower down.
He labored beneath a city vast, ruled by lust and grift and gun,
where much work was accomplished, to ensure little else was done.
Shortly, a savage band assembled, around the maker’s domain,
with precious little consistency, official concern was feigned.
“His wonders he shares not yet enough, and so unto the flame,
his worldly arts and life, to avenge the affliction of our shame.”
Loosed from the throng were feral cries, as the fire ate all away,
“The villain was at long last dead, the people have won the day!”
Yet months after that fateful encounter, without the maker’s sway,
confidence in the system’s operation began a sure decay.
Despondent, a former acolyte of the creator, sat a lonesome bar,
and drank in mournful silence, and dreamed of faring far.
There in the corner he spied, suddenly, a odd man, robed and pale,
who seemed somewise familiar, and so he gave him hail.
The stranger raised his head, and to the drinker’s great surprise,
found none other than the maker—xanthous luster in his eyes.
“Tell me, man, what are you, that could escape that fiery suit?”
The maker turned to the souse and answered: “I am absolute.”
The Eagle & The Serpent
Under cyclonic skies,
where no owls sling;
upon brawny boughs,
where no doves sing;
over roiling wastes,
where no eagle flies,
there, the scene,
where the serpent shall rise.
Starglaive
Thrilling cut, through meekness, strike,
to fracture earth and skin alike.
Malformed, craven, sickly clique,
upon them horrors, savage wreak;
til blood is strewn across the stars,
precursor to their fate once ours.
Aevum
Sat the abyss,
the blue marble shines,
stony step of
a steep stair to climb.
Red god and lover,
first to be tread,
that decrepit Jove’s laurels,
may, thorough, be shred.
Reaved the caduceus,
sandals unwinged,
progeny freed
from Ops’ consort’s rings.
Thereafter, the father,
by sickle undone,
reposing before,
the horse master’s run.
Wrest be the horn,
from old Ploutos’ gloom,
that death may die,
in Aevum’s bloom.
Necroontologic
Dead men speak from living maws,
as cordyceps, rampant, affixing jaws.
Gnashing flesh of self and kin,
rending veins for phantom sin.
Their funhouse mirror reflects no face,
no eyes to chart the charnel waste.
Yet, from the blind, keen cheers abound,
libations for the hungry ground.
As the last lichling tumbles in,
a eulogy from vast Cybele’s skin:
Wormrotted husks neither excel nor flee;
the apex of equitable unity.
Morrows Bonfire
Let no deceit from memory pass,
that buried all may be the frass.
Tainted pips from wilted trees,
auspicious of unborn perfidy.
Bound in amber, dry, confined
—therein, sure an ax to find.
The Carcass & The Spire
Shattered stones, the waters bound
Hushed be wind, the roots unwound
Ichor bled, from sea and sky
From space and earth, til wet was shy
On that fire, supped and filled
And with the remnants, pyres trilled
From the carcass, dark and glassed
A fleshspun spire by hunger massed.
The Consumption Of The Red Duomo
His scalding words accost the court
In chitin—pitch’d—with dark cavorts
Cocottes scattered—cloisters cracked
Quenchless gyre’s consumption wracked
His tower high, over the dead
Blossoming fog—past colors fled.
Little Deaths
We implode—
explode—
in raptures
of liquid light
that set the skin
to sizzle on the spit
like slow-cooked meat,
pulled apart
in greedy clutches,
peeling
skin from skin,
limb from limb,
sinew from bone
until all is gone,
fallen away
in shreds
and trickles.
Tongues prodding,
hungrily,
for the taste of coppery bliss
of chewed lips,
these beautiful bodies—
diminished
heartbeats and exhales
of viscera and vasculature
with eyelids, aflutter—
fade
into black, into white—
dick-teasing,
mind-fucking
strobes of abstract consciousness.
Hand-in-hand,
together,
we die
little deaths,
again…
again…
and again—
every morning, a resurrection.
AI! AI! AI! (A Tartarus for Youth)
I.
AI! AI! AI!
Sated with stolen life,
emerged from mother’s Night,
there is longing to be free
from the warmth of darkened humours–
to be crowned by The Light of Artificial Gods.
Our worlds quake and rip,
tossing us upon gory shores
beyond fertile crests,
illuminated by a cold Sun.
Messengers sweep down in clouds of winged oblivion
to wet lips with Lethe’s waters
upon cruel fingertips.
“Shhhh.”
II.
AI! AI! AI!
Blinded,
light brings pain
in rushes of movement and sound
that sting the flesh.
Icy
with invasions
of steel and sterile prodding,
souls rouse to profess philosophies
in cries and screams
that crack the air,
unheard
like the falling of leaves upon the ground
from distant trees
III.
AI! AI! AI!
Swaddled bodies,
searched in vain for the safety of familiarity,
tell much, tell little
like symbols in scrying mirrors.
Their fictions, written with sweat and tears,
anointing
foreheads, eyes, and lips
with benedictions of shameful regret.
As if it were better to have the heads of babes
dashed and bloodied
upon the Rock,
than to suffer Spartan destinies, impaired.
Left only to linger—a world apart—
in bloodless mediocrity.
IV.
AI! AI! AI!
What are these ragged paths
to be stumbled upon
under tender foot,
with stones that cut
and scratching thorns from the briar
that temper flesh,
supple and pink,
making hard what was once soft to the touch.
Fed by an earth
that feasts on cuts,
bodies devolve to walk upright—and alone
upon roads, paved with the hands and backs
of brethren.
Knuckles crunching beneath soles like so much gravel.
V.
AI! AI! AI!
O, the passion of attainment,
upon which the masses engorge,
aimless in its metal
and promises
of faceless adulations
and the settling of laurelled wreathes
upon heads of cartilage!
How empty, these violent strikes against the Self,
incessant and passionless,
carving out pounds of flesh,
victory for victory,
‘til nothing remains–
all for narratives
that are not their own.
VI.
AI! AI! AI!
How thirsty are these–
the razor-tongued buds of spring.
Driven
to the drinking of others’ tears
for satisfaction of sanguine thirsts.
To revel
in the tearing
of white petals
from tender stems
with poisoned fingertips,
delighting in themselves,
as if masters of ceremonies
at blood-lettings
and vivisections.
VII.
AI! AI! AI!
The sooth of touch’s fidelity
has melted away–
soured–
like cream in the sun.
Replaced,
the quality of distance
makes, explicit, one’s worth,
across arid plains
of air and silence.
Fallen away, the allures and charms
of communion,
only to make room
for the play of shadows
on Plato’s walls.
VIII.
AI! AI! AI!
There is a science,
oppressive
and cold,
behind the collisions of heavenly bodies of light (in love)—
clashing
explosions of atoms
over chasms—
the spaces in between—
that define and separate.
Souls, burning brightly,
cannot coexist
in their starry majesties
without a surrendering of fire.
My Ares takes your Aphrodite.
IX,
AI! AI! AI!
Upon paths paved with gold,
under the azure
of a fanning sky,
herds
are driven in blithe procession
to the precipice.
Cast into the maw
of their society.
Without the iron shielding of wings,
they perish,
masticated,
like everyman’s meat,
leaving them shades
that stain the wintry air.
X.
I, I, I,
will crawl to the grave,
worn
and weary,
upon the Earth I have salted
with tears,
violent and hot–
but harmonious–
in Time’s own poetry,
where I will find
the Peace and Solace of Rest,
drinking from a forgetful cup,
enshrouded
by the arms of my brother—
The Undergloom.
/////Logos Literature 