Sunday, August 29, 2010

Neither nor

It is neither the delicate, but
Definite arching of your limbs,
Nor is it the constant and clever
Humor of your smile, and still it
Is not the sheen and shimmer of
Your desolate eyes, no, and yet
It is neither the tepid and tremulous
Breathing of your skin, nor is it the
Tender fever of your words, as it
Also cannot be the silent and
Imperfect flicker of your wit,
No, it is none of such styles and
Forms, done and undone, that 
Move me as you sway time’s steady
Course, for me, you leave unscathed
And unharmed, but that which
Surrounds and supposes in a fashion
I call life, does sway and stagger by
The tremors of your beauty,
Untold, unknown.


The priestess shuffles down, around
And through the pews, as wax,
marble and glass echo her
Solemn steps, she goes alone by
Candlesight to save not her soul, but
Solely her lord’s abode, where ruin
Creeps like his son writhed, where
Sin does tempt like desert sands,
She goes alone by twilight to visit
Not the idols, but to enshrine her
Father’s altar, the sacrificial mount,
A place not for man but for lamb.
The priestess hobbles, no, she trembles
Not by fear, but in dismay, that which
She beholds is neither flesh nor blood
Of divine passion, it is a desolate
Mantle not a martyr’s halo, and faith
Alone by nightfall cannot redeem
These fallen vaults of grace, without verb
She goes, within her hands she holds,
As dust raises its sickle and let’s fall its
Hammer, she vacuums the holy place
Before great mass carries through those
Doors the indecent rabble of her lord’s
Creation, dust be gone. 

Savage tree

Under the savage tree a man wakes,
To discover an instrument of simple
Death or peaceful torture and by his
Hand a lovely slumber he does find
Under the bows of broken light, ‘till
The ground beneath his rest does
Whither and respire to his will.


My birth I cannot recall
How unknown to me a
Beginning of my very
Own should be.
The world awakened to me
Now, to be remembered
In dream and daze, until
Born anew I shall
Die and immortal become.

Own devices

To your own devices I left you
Alone by the singing machine
As your voice cleared a lonely
Place in the air, against which I
Had nothing save the silence of
My stare.
The man you swore was
Neither lover nor friend, instead
You said he was either figure
Or shape, a thing to hold beneath
My glare.
Of you was left only your voice,
A home, a mold that is my return
When my words have sunken
Through their weight, then I see
The chasm of my sight, and heed
The rapture of
Your flight.

Gone by

Here, you look young again,
Old friend gone by,
When you left to the sea
For rest and repose
You found hard shores
And still harder souls,
For in veins grew
Crystals of salt and
Beneath some eyes
Stones wept from cold.
You went by the tides
For solace and sense
And before you felt wet
Sands, you made castles
With hands, and by the pier’s
Lonely stretch, you welcomed
A friend gone by, to the abyss.


My face to your window
Presses for home, against
Ancient time my heart grinds,
To bleeding clocks I am machine
But to your panes I am half-man,
A cog, a needle, a mind of mine
Can be no comfort to your skin,
A flesh so tender to my breath
Can be no journey’s rest,
Your hollow eyes laced in tears
Sing by the graveyard of my years
And should I stop to wait my days,
Shut your lids on my coffin door.