1 nov. 2019

   Oghuz steel,
        Harmageddon from the east.

vespers, matins, all little hours
 and the glorious Byzantine rite
loses its right to write
   itself into the future of history.
buried with myrrh, weapon and gold
  in stone tombs and Constantine graves
 on fields of privation and stridence
     it all becomes,
     left to rot and stink
     in this now unhallowed, peaty humus
      trampled, used as roads by the Turk invader.
  an age gone by, an era collapsed!
      all holy shrines and relics
      abandoned to an enemy in advance,
        and hunted like mice their gold and gem became
         by the great and mad Seljuk dragon,
           noble, magnificent enemy!

     [there was never any true hope left after Manzikert.]

        land of mysticism and solemnity,
          hear my akathist hymn
         before its words negate into the very silence
         which swallow wholly Anatolia.
  where are my Christians of sword and axe?
              where are all great armies of the Cross?
            nothing but dust they are, and immured they are
               in sombre dreams of my own medieaval nostalgia!
the magnificent ouevre of great Byzantion;
            the forests of Cappadocia and the great Thrakian coasts,
       the the monasteries of the Lycian Taurus mountains

  the shrines and sanctities 
   of Holy Constantinople of the Roman Empire,
              pissed on, ravaged by Allah's dogs of steppe and sand.

i am naked and throbbing like Shemihazah.
    but are not we all in front of the Lord?

all i want to see are the backs of women i fornicate.
their emotions can go to hell because they are mirrors to me and i want none of that.
all i want to see is the wolven foam their hungry mouths produce
     at the sight of a true angels' flesh!
     for is not a true angel a fallen one?


                       i am you.

                                    i am possessed by the spirit of you.
like a maid brings cloth to the river
you brought the golden mystery
to a creek of waste and pollution
as to let it rinse, wash therein!

       but what soiled holy silk can be cleansed with feces!?
I am shit, I am flesh, I am mud,
I am a naked foetus in front of my Lord.
not even the Devil will care of my worth enough
     to do my slave-markets' bidding!

I am fallen and destitute
  and to my own shit i am doomed.
and all of them bound their pride and their soul with the fetters of mutuality in expiatory responsibility, and colluded through the night the evil conspiracy against the peace of the world.
like dogs mount dogs
  fallen angels do the heifers of men.
what does it take for you to finally, finally, finally fucking even notice the spiritual civil war that is battling on inside all and every single human soul?
and would not that be such an artwork, so destructive, so beautiful, so hopeful, just we recognized its buzzing and burning below
the thresholds of routine and every day?
you shall be lead to an abyss of fire
and you shall be contained therein
until but coal and shame remain there down.

encased into the stone of history you are as an immortal pig amongst men: immortal, yes, but what pork does not rot sour in infinity?
a length of days you shall not acquire;
a fortitude of spirit, but an ideal in your heart;
nerve, guts, gallantry... spectres haunting your house! the gaze of a hero you have not, but on your back, burning, as you turn from challenges! 
prodigal hearts wounded from the lance of self-critique, bleeding the black muck of their own reprobate wanton. not really out of lust and not really out of self-actualization either,
and not out of gluttony but out of sloth, laziness, cowardice...