deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Archangel's Death Letter

7">The exquisite corpse
of the Poet
is left in a muddy
darkness
by the wretched soul
in spite;
sometime in astral light
I nearly missed
the wreck we made love
out in the discriminate
paradise-
Evil matrimony
haven�t I defined,
smiling intentions to capture
deliriums violent music
yet sacrificing
the whim to live-
a lover is inside
should I greet them?
My dearest sins
I cherished and
wavered and adored
you so.
Collapsing, I broke
in shards to fall
into your hands
but after all
may I still reside
already tried
at the instance
of my bride,
may again cry
within a heart
a dying light
remembers love.
Capture the vision
over and over
sitting in the pentacle
of my life.
Oh, do I remember
perhaps the feeling
of bare sun
across my face,
later to be resting
my body in shade
and withered exhaustion.
Reminisce, be the spirit
without request,
to the grating shatter
of the farewell
to my gallant
connections!
�
Roughly scatter the
luminous bloodspray
to a grinning host-
the tortured bride
I visit quietly
for awhile to be
what we were at
the time.
I breathed and
sacrificed and
loved and died
to murder instead
all of my memories.
�
AHAHA! We forced each other
to gush laughter
from the ribs of angels
wounding the
neon in our street,
others heard the yell
of broken kingdoms
across the sufficed
lair to become a
�Promised Land�
glaringly titled
fluorescent and all.
�
Am I (un)dying?
Hell with the clock,
we have time to live.
I think.
Recalling it all,
it�s been an
intriguing succession,
if not pastoral.
I want you to smile
whenever I die;
I�ve reached my
climax- omniscience.
I understand that
you realize
no one is replaceable.
I thank you fer that.
�
*
�
Before I collapse
let me get my chance
to burn
and to burn
I shall.
Begin a dance
with me, my lover.
Wind-swept sanctuary
complacent haunting
for the mephistophelean
fireplace of God
a sunken sun execution.
Yes, I can recognize
feeling and deaf
fragile amusement-
the horrible ending
to an untold tale
sending forward truths
and fallacies within
damnation�s hour.
Won�t there be another
entry towards freedom
for the sake of pointlessness,
charging and sightless
we once were
long enough to break
the insolent grin
my mortified spirit
had grown in numbness.
Won�t there be sacrifice,
conceived in turmoil
at the antagonist�s wake?
Rehashing old affairs
never seemed as pernicious,
but I enjoy this brilliant new sadism.
The strangest of angels
sits and awaits
a rehearsing parade
containing death
as their marching head
who strays from
the crowd to give greetings
shaking the hand
of the strange angel
before taking gracefully
his hand and walking off
leaving life�s parade
clueless and mute
of the two silhouettes
fleeting the scene
one of them, death
supposedly a skeleton,
the other of an
archangelic repose
within indigo clothes
supposedly myself.
- May 15th, 2008
[/font]