Monocline

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Lay to rest these childish sins,
from gone to ground in quaking dirt
 
I handhold to sounds -
a bicker & sway for skinning high,
 
the cry, the climb,
dangling tired;
 
the scrape, the joy, the blood,
the will, the nerve,
the shame...a wonderful
place to die, this was all
excellent! but
abandon hope
ye who enter:
 
blessing & curses,
 
colors & prayers
are a terrible comfort,
a place to do circles in....
a grip on the wound
of a festering pride,
 
see = me, this little baby
with a big bag of salt
for the all-seeing ~blink
with a doctor's note
(you kill what you love)
 
this demesne....
I imagined an attempt
at philanthropy
or that someday
maybe the hyenas would
feed from my hands
and there would be no starving
in a land of golems,
 
an attempt at silence
for a shell of what
you never were,
a wretched peeve -
 
oh, the Universe
with an arrogant smirk,
gangrenous and afraid to connect
these pasty, shambling sacks
of a trillion in debt;
 
two questions:
 
who's got a social conscience
stuck in their throat?
Do all the girls work this hard
after midnight?
 
 
Gone to ground, these clingy old sins,
to find the....unfamiliar dirt,
the will, the nerve,
the shame (a great day to die)
all blessed & cursed
and delicious,
 
and ridiculous,
 
terrific colors &  
a terrible comfort,
a place to make circles in,
a finger in the wound
of an old, festering gaze,
 
undermining a shell of  
what never-was...
a calling from below
the crying cliffside
plumbs defiant,
 
a split-second scream
in the unheard dream,
obfuscated ground
a hole through the silence
 
I handhold the sound
to breach the summit,
and I am high
in the thrall
of falling quiet
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SPLAT