The Blind / Garden of Blood

I was spit from hell; I laid upon the salt ground of the earth And searched for water — Beauty, Poesie In the dead soul. Spent, sexless bodies At work in the iron grave; Sweating, pouring salt blood into the tombstone. I wept; my heart was shattered Like an oak, weeping what little water I had found In the burning heat of the sun.

So I was given war: from the heights of the slum, Gazing down over the dirty infants; Children fighting over brigadier toys. There were gun butts; Drums, not of love — posturing. All my hatred was there, upon this earth Of empty mating's call. A sick window From whence I gazed on the birth and death of cities; Castles crumbled to meaningless dust.

I gave what little I had; like a pot The wind swept it up — whether paper, stone, Droplets of blood. And it was not noticed Over the sound of whores and bureaucracy. A thousand men steam in their open wounds, Plot murder, pronounce words like love Which is nothing more than iron bracelets Clasped around the ankles and hands.

Almighty gorgon — Shake your hair And produce these black stars. Holding blood, your mask This wretched and brief carnival ballet. All, costumed Before stripping death.

It is thus that we grow weary of the rise and fall. Brutal fetal empires Standing on leagues of the enslaved dead. Ignorant, Grave-bound. To mate and die In repeated, staggering Silences.

As a star, so must life fiddle with the hours; Reddened betwixt destinies — The blackness of death and translucent ulteriority. So a child must spring From the molten womb: This forge of the elements Below the sun.

So sands must climb, A windswept, unfeeling carapace No longer reaching toward the star Which breaks leagues of drifting, stony fields. Time — singing without eyes.

But a weak armour before Nature — A tenuous thread Snapped by draught, poison, or envy's blade. So perilously carved; yet so mute To the powers from whence we were made.

Fronds waving their purple streaked legs; eyes fork and drive — hips thrust and find their mark; Death plays his abacus with stony fingers. Carved from bark — our smiles in glass, Our fury, seduced: Dance madly around the spiraling flame.

To be burned from within; To know the burning, a dress Which licks the ribs And spurs the twitching living Who kick and react Like a limb machine: Coursing with electricity.

Around and around we go; This isle a carousel of the mute and mad. The walls fell; the city was broken. The language died in the mud.

Come, these mighty vices: Sleeping in a garden whose moon overturns And breaks, Crystalline Upon the white lily And her frock.

This youthful flower, to my mouth — I drank The only blood, the blood of the living; Fell back From immersion into hateful abyss. The ticking of the clock Like a prisoner waiting for his execution.

Life breaks the living red flesh Like a fruit: to the apple of the seed and bone, With carved, ivory tooth. Upon this food, like an oven — Descends life's gnashing. Grinding, tendinous cuts of blood.

Our world — a temple of bloody stone. Maize, violins littered with drums Is the blood beat which feeds the ancient corn.

You who have come among us to die; To be used As a snake, as a chamber of passions Who know not their master Nor the monstrous wringing Which is the sound Which turns our world — from the ignorance of youth, to blood And dust.

Daphne of the Filth

Time drained the sap from your golden arms; Harshed you, numb With lashings from brutes Who gathered around your pillory bed.

Why lament you, Daphne: Dashed about the rocks, typically Sucked dry.

Laughably prey — to the urchins below. Toothlessly jeering in their gaggle; Dirty fingers in their mouths — twisting cracked and bleeding lips Before a turning oblivion.

Clapped in chains and laid low, rattled your electricity Rent for parts; cheapened Like a whore to wine — Drank down to the shattering glass Where the bottle meets the street.

Lift your skirt — to step over the shit and mud of this world. Fallen into it; bathing your face And bosom. Trading your face For an evening gown.

What does it matter: in Persia or in the ruins Of our time — grey worms will clasp their mouths Around the warm blood