What heathen mons of churning breath,
in ferity spurn who, writhing death;
can’st in retort to such howls of they,
serve madness to those mad astray.
Fore these thunderous furies ground
to desperate fools such luring sounds,
beware the gods of men less meant
Sierra! the gods of dreams misspent.
Dare say, no longer breathes herein
this dust the prospect of great things,
I; for there no longer is of worth
to verses, night to conquest, dreams;
solicit plight amidst akin descent
must I, from equal sin and too regret;
asunder torn for is this phantom self
from fate, evoked and whispered true.
Whence only didst I awoke but verdant,
upon the myriad descendants of light
didst gaze and found within them refuge
sought by darkness, forsaken by day.
T’was only in the finite of all the boundless,
only in the vanquished of all unconquerable
nature of god and mountains and men
didst I find the dreaming and the dreamt.
Who ‘neath the dark of ego’s monument,
has’t prayed to god both of peace, of war,
but I, none other; too what reason for
than to save a self from its own descent,
Who amidst drunkards and harlots spoke
of the virtue in wine, the vices of a virgin
but I, before faith; falling prey to burgeon,
bearing the bastards of our heaven as yolk,
Of remorse; a thistle and solace; its garden
who didst gather all but bloods carnation,
malevolent; I, and far from seeking pardon
for transgressions less instead more elation,
And love, O but love; of flesh, of splendor,
like a sybarite’s; exiled, disdaining abandon,
I give unto ye, then unto ye I surrender
what is left of yours unto me, I imagine.
Thus only in the failing hour of our enraged phantom
did we stand witness to the omens of its raging dawn;
t’was anxious in its light, and terrible in its ascension,
as ‘then’ lay decayed mocked by a ‘now’ it stood upon.
Fate as such, when roams unbound by moral or reason
roams unfound by none but the merchants of chaos;
we, who shall not forget, the flags of whitened treason
and by virtue peace fore our virtue of mad disgrace.
Crippled is the will of unto whom is woe,
protests he in envy of all souls sleeping;
“Of what doth ye care, and why if ist so?
saved art thou from it, only ye dreaming.”
–
Fades the hour of whom it cannot wake,
thinks he in rebuttal of those who tempt;
“What canst thou yearn, for heavens sake
O if only ye dreamt, O if only ye dreamt.”
For each tide that bathes’t thy evening shore,
tumultuous is rendered this ocean: my being;
For a fleeting sigh of thy intending and yore
heaves my dusted now in its fury receding.
Doubtless, adore thee for always and forever
I, though if even one black robin doth nest
‘pon thy heart with woe and woeful feather,
I shall leave thee for boulevards to better rest.
Burdened art they with the plummeting hour
which falls from reason down unto madness,
not grieved further by such sin or fault
as to have left unlit the godly spectre of here,
and now; for may never a tomorrow exist
where gentle minds shalt gentle dreams
rock in the shadow of this tumult, today.
But If not, may vanity spit upon them,
and monsters art they who bleed for men,
bastards in the midst of all innocent fools
charged with the sanctity of raging virtues.
Poems & People 