bloated troubadours dragged onto shore from the cliffy river current, their mouths shall never again sing another song - yet their strings still sound somehow!

 this is a glass house; keep your rocks in hand.

enchanted by werewolven spells under the gipseian moon

a pelagic beast does never differ
human flesh from seal!
what is, and what is not, a meal.

...and therein found a latibule!
a spider's nest, a dwelling hole,
some kind of holy, silent repose!

"Ego incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto
ex Maria virgine et homo factus est,
et expecto venturi sæculi
et resurrectionem mortuorum;
ideo precor beátam Maríam semper vírginem,
omnes angelos et sanctos, et vos,
fratres et sororibus,
oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum,
cuius regni non erit finis. Amen."

where are the beautiful angels,
the grapes, the wine, the harps
and all of the grace and absolution?
where is your redemptive storm
and the bluest fires of exoneration?
your graceful shower of care,
warmth’s balsam, all the pests of pity?

my skin boils still, and my heart,
a weird and gloomy thing:
a fortress as useless keeping things in
as it is keeping things out;
its moat is shallow and a sewer;
the gates are crumbling and dusting;
the stonework rickety and unstable,
and the peasantry all around it
is stricken with drought and devilish famine.

things need work and things need care;
with the exception of honey and art,
left to their own devices,
everything goes from bad to worse;
and it is a rule which applies
to the existentialism of man also.

 Two epic poems of existentialist, God-fearing religious drivel, "The Mysterious Tribology Between Man & God", and "Our Mary of Fire & Silence", are in production. Here is a snippet:

i had a laughable concept of the immortal,
the perennial, the eternal and ever glorious,
and by consequence i fell victim
to the most savage of its very enemies;
my mind fed times' moths -
for the scariest pestilence of them all
        is the temporality
        by which I feared being
        in and of itself!

   I vanished
   without much trace
   into the color of noise.

   a mediocre static I became,
   a grey speck of dust
   appearing, disappearing
   like some orb in the corner of ones' eye,
   some faint, meaningless flicker
   between interesting and colorful worlds.

she told me to paint this

the commune takes big, well-deserved breaths

"THE LAMENTATION 

OF THE HIDDEN ZARATHUSTRA"

 

I deluded myself

as having been made of glass,

therefore, extremely precious.

but my delusion shook

and horizons shivered

and I spasmed and I howled and I seizured!

yes, I am the culprit with coal’s dagger;

a cap of pig’s skin on my head

and an old, oaken staff of exhausted spells

i brandish… but weakly.

sneak in I tried to; I failed!

but nothing to lose I had – I thought.

gorged by the bayonets

of border-patrol angels

at the crossroads of heaven and earth

I fell dead!

my mind fed the moths of time,

pestilence of temporality!

my soul pined for eternity –

but how guileless I really was.

now – will my soul retreat ever backward

into the great, holy nothing

after this failed, sneaky attempt

at trafficking my way into heaven?

I am silent in Gods’ court.

but God knows I am sorry for it!

…right?

so why am I stricken, accursed yet?

where is all the solace?

where is the forgiveness?

where are the beautiful angels…

the grapes, the wine, the harps

and all of the grace and absolution?

where is your redemptive storm,

the exonerating moths and itches of relief?

your graceful shower of care,

warmth’s balsam and all the pests of pity?

my skin boils still,

and my heart, a weird and gloomy thing.

Holy, holy spirit – strike grace into my heart

and grant me keys and strength and power

again – as once I had –

once my eye moved mountains!

why not?

am I not deserving?

did I not sing your praise, at least,

as I fucked and ate and lied my way to hell?

where is your grace when I so need it,

when I crawl with filth and bug?

when I trade water for drugs and food for hugs

and sex for affirmation?

but I understand now.

yes! I will it.

i deserve it. shame me.

I fell into

a godless hole –

without rope!

poorest soul,

without hope…

the least I could do to honor you

is to become your soldier,

to become clearsight’s eunuch,

to rid the flesh of sin and blemish.

I am interested in the concept

of spiritually destroying the male gonad

and strangle all the energies of gluttony

flowing, streaming out therefrom.

but I was – and am – not courageous enough.

yet this Divine volcanism,

always boiling underneath,

a little or a lot yet relentless at core,

commands me to.

what shall win – faith or flesh?

you – or me ?

I seek redemption.

you know, that,

filled to the brim of the soul

with a great magnitude of malaise

I struggled,

and struggled,

and struggled.

I vanished

without much trace

into the color of noise.

a mediocre static I became,

a grey speck of dust

between interesting and colorful worlds.

…and I met and I spoke with the harpies of the night:

to wander aloof in the vapors –

foggy daze of disease –

and to be harassed by the madness of religious hunger;

to drink from the sullage of heaven

and leap then forthwith into hellmouths –

that is to seek you.

that is what the harpies told me.

but I rear from pain and distress!

which means I can not handle you.

on stranger loops

i get stuck,

and time never lasts

when you discomfort

in eternity;

when one time ends,

another, new one,

just takes its place!

the vortices of human flight roared

with ever memetics of avoidance

and the somnolent morality

of this new age fell upon me –

not as a sleep or a dream or some means of escape

but as an evil and gruelling nightmare!

i devour sin

with savage mouth!

i seemingly study with ardor

laziness and self-pity and indulgence!

and i contour

the aesthetics of vice

with my coarse brush…

i make a pitiful sort of sport

out of self-contamination!

i am the corrupt king…

i drink tears of young children from goblets

as to replenish a dried, parched eye

once fixating on the palace in the sky

but not anymore... not even a bit.

i am a dog!

unable am i to stop

and discipline

is but a mountain

in some distant, distant horizon.

it has come to my understanding

that discipline is what separates

man from beast,

and I try to order a morality

around that insight –

but I cannot seem to implement it.

i am a dog, yes, but you are out there somewhere.

a Holocene between ages

of cold, Angra-Mainyuan chaos are you,

and for reason of your existence I am grateful,

because I cannot help but to find myself

mysteriouslyout here in life,

and I must fend much like everyone else,

mustn’t I?

but everywhere i look, garbage! –

and from it, i so become.

i become

a logical extension

of this garbage.

Mammon in me

i cannot seem to evict.

my heart becomes my booth of confession:

outside i cannot make sense of any God –

because outside mostly smells

of piss and asses' manure!

yet I know you are.

as some dots of colorful splashing

on the eigengrau canvas

of everyday existence

are you.

and I seek beauty.

as a brief but mighty melody

cutting through glass air before

vanishing without much trace

into the bleak dullness of things

which obscure mysteriously

the origin from wherever it came,

you are.

and I seek music.

I feel the powerful urge to defend something

with flesh and will and weapon.

a storm unhinges!

and in the eye of that fucking storm

I stand looking for a God

not seemingly fully there

but meditating in the toxomists

I am

for you

nevertheless.

an admiration of holy martyrdom

in good and in evil

i curate.

and in good and in evil

i see through cracks

something truly great.

 

Yet another magnificent offering to the Commune by the ever so strange Sulphur Drunkard