Death Waits

Death waits.

Death is bored.

Death is tapping his bony fingers on the table (obsidian inlay probably).

Death sighs.

Death unlocks his phone, and likes God's selfie (where is She, the Golden Gate?).

Death thinks, What am I here for. My work is automated. In every system, degradation, death and decay are embedded, subtly and efficiently, in the clickbaits, in the duckfaces in the gangbangs. The personal touch, the craft, they're gone. My father would be ashamed to see how things have turned out, if he were alive today.

Death gets a notification on his Apple Watch, Junko Takahashi.

Death says aloud, Finally, then sits up straight, closes his eyes, opens his mind, his black robe becomes everywhere endless as his atoms turn inside out through the folds of space time to meet Junko on the way.

life grew legs                i see an ad
and trampled life             on every surface
the world is dead             i see them
the apple of knowledge rots   written in the sky

i try to sleep                how to keep your teeth white
i killed my friends           now i know i must

to the, through the           i sell my life
something, with the           to buy it back
forest, trees                 i know its worth this way
baby, bathwater               i click to live
victor, spoils                i like and in return am liked

the picture of beauty, or The Mere Object

when i was young, my mother kept a picture of a beautiful woman hung up on the wall above the bed. it was just a decoration to her, something pretty. but to me it was a window into a dream. i asked her, Who is that lady, and she said, She's nobody sweet baby girl, just a beautiful picture, isn't it lovely? she said It, i remember that. She, It, the woman on the wall, white and thin and pleased with her power. She looked like she lived in the sky.

i grew up staring at Her thoughtlessly, just taking Her in, as i lay on the dirty carpet and watched the dust rise up as i rolled in the sun coming through the window. i was alone most of the time back then, but somehow it felt like She was alone with me. She melted into my thoughts, when i looked in the mirror and saw Her on the wall opposite and myself reflected back. it was as if She said, See me, see me, see me, see me, until She filled the frame, until there was no room left for my dark and ugly face.

i grew to hate myself, and it took me a long time to see how that related to being seen.

now that i'm older, older than Her, older than my mother when she died, i think back on them with sadness. my mother, blanker than canvas, failed to make anything beautiful in her entire life, herself and myself included. and She, or It, or she, or it, The Mere Object, nearly degraded me to its level. objects can be beautiful; many are created by mankind--and mankind alone--for that purpose. but i am not an object, i was not then, i never will be, and i forever reject the obscuring veneer of beauty.

pop song

the wind obscures something.
the distance you keep
must be heavy to carry
drop it and come to me
you never reveal the stars thru the rain

do not hide your whole life.
your whole life is as light as the wind
it's heavy now
so let go and come to me
you never reveal the scars thru the pain

(bridge)
bridges fall
and are built again
canyons collapse
and rise again

you're running away tonight.
the wind is at your back
i am behind you calling
i cannot see you
i do not know how
you always conceal the stars thru the rain

the lizard circle

the lizard circle takes a name
uncouth uncut for holy game
i know once lost will not regain,   nor torchlight end
                                      mine eye comply

touch stone upon the sulphur core
if quoth a raven "never", more
or lessing cost the hidden door,   let raining rend
                                      thy sinking sky

the night was young before she grew
a lizard's crown of scale for you
before the toll of life's curfew,   the dark amends
                                      dry blinded eyes

power

i am the last of the last
marbled and heaving and ripe.
don't open the gate,
just consume me.

i am the first of the last.
i am the all and only one who is naturally evil.

who is naturally evil?
i am.
who was naturally good?
i was.
who will be free?
i will.
the last of the last is first
to die
and last to live completely free.

freedom is the power
to think the thoughts i want.
lust is the power
to do the thoughts i think.
i am free i am lust i am power.

the world is charmed.
the world is cursed.
the world walks right up to me,
bold and blushing.
i sign its breast, indelibly.

Why we could start from Life

Why we could start from Life —
She cruelly began from me —
The woods released beyond Myself —
But Mortality.

I quickly stood — She didn't know lethargy
But we did keep
Our leisure but our labor not,
From Her Spite —

I avoided the Void, there Men slept
Not at Work — outside the Plane —
I avoided the Rooms of Impassive Steel —
I avoided the Rising Moon —

And too — She avoided Me —
The Flames spread still but Hot —
From also Stone, our Skin —
Our Hair — also Iron

I started after a Grave this wasn't
A Sinking for the Sky —
The Floor wasn't fully invisible —
The Foundation — outside the Sky —

Until now — 'tis not a Moment — but more
Doesn't feel longer less the Night
We last forgot the Serpent's Footprints
Weren't from Impermanence —

She wanted to think of nothing,
to leave everything behind.
   So the angry joy of want,
   too the mirror in her mind.

"Life is not a string of pearls.
Life is not one gem.
Nor is it homeward-
   bound or stray,"
she thought,
then threw the thought
   away.

Her soulless body turned aside
to join nothing, over There,
where there isn't
  Space enough
  or Time at all, to care.

mmmm what      are       you.
i love
like the sea floor waits
or the clock condemns
which is to say
a saying instead of saying
(that i don't
love
at all)
it.

buuuut maybe     i
want you
like the rain wants to rain
no. scratch that
like the ant wants to serve
a noble mind with simple purpose devoid of self
something like that
but better

god writes without words
she is without herself
and the story
is unwritten, isn't not written
is unread, isn't not read
is untold, isn't not told

a life without man
is not his life, but is life
a world without names
cannot be his
but his he claims
for when god unsaid, " "
man answered, "Man."

a painting in history

i saw a painting of a painting of a boy who looked like a stain that looked like a boy
sitting at the river lost in thought, lost in color on canvas
his pigmented soul fading in strokes to bare canvas
the bare skin of his arms goose bumped gold and brown
i got lost in thought i thought

i studied it in history in the library in history in a book in history
i looked to study to see the painting in the painting of the stain of the boy
once wet, now dry and spread out into form to form a form of a boy
who is destined for greatness
to be studied
in history
to be seen
and prayed to and questioned,
"who is destined for greatness?"

i've got no one to lighten up
but everyone to blame
i'm outside of life, looking in
and death - from out - the same

i light my past on fire
then eat some ice cream
then sleep my regrets away
if i could only only only only only
(ddrreeeeeeeeaaaaammm)

oh baby baby touch me
said the bullet to the brain
and embracing steel braced me
for the neverlasting pain

sunshine sally's dancing all over my grave!
i feel a little put off
but i pretend not to mind
and spin 'til i find
a better position to rot

i was stillborn in spring
with wet feathers and a broken face
wrecked upon the nest in my porcelain grave.
my mother sang her horror
none listened.
none can say what her wild gray eyes beheld
it was not me for i was not.
my brothers screamed of hunger
and heeding, she shot away

Endow me with your knowledge
The seed of your fruit
From the tree of your life
So that I might learn
To unlearn it

---

One moment, talking, laughing
Another, lost in a poison fog
Of course death awaits
Of course of course yes
But in the meantime?

Stop.
In the meantime?
What.
And why not
Constancy
Meaning
Choice
Null, all -
    Deathly illusion

A scrap among runts
(The strong make peace)
A tantrum, to last, here.

triptych

                i dunno
                       what he’s
                     thinking
                          but he’s wrong
                     i hope   he chokes
                     ugly and cheap
                  who talks
                     like that anyway
                     and her
                     stupid trifles
           i'm     not what            they say
 shaking inside       i’m going home    earth’s peace, rusted
still outside          fuck            is a crooked crown
 a smooth steel shell   this      fought against
 atomic heart beating      look      yet gained
aching to burst              light    yet worn