Funereal
deliverance of knowledge; to nullify, to enamour yet…this bemusing serenade,
echoes of suffering under hollow canonical facades…this is the way we go, not
physically but…in essence. Denial. Antipathy of psalms.
Despite
this rage…shrouds of bramble, foliage, crowned for despair of existence…my
father’s face, under browning leaves of autumn, the grace of winds settle as
the nameless gravestone tilts…
Until, this
sombre reflection understands that I, that I am to resolve.
This chapel
coalesces a firmament that welcomes a genesis…
Organs
collapse. Thoughts vaporise into oxygen…to give, to share…for you my love. The
heart on my back that I carry is a lead weight but this hill, that is my
father, one shall overcome.
Temple of
aural lights shimmer, above, the darkest hour is here now…I fall as the heart
bears too much, flowers with urns as stems, discolour our hope however, one is
determined to allow you to be…to…be.
Silence
flares. Rain descend, the dirt denounces into…perishing, the abdomen
stings…crash unto flames of melancholy.
Your
embodiment,
Eulogy of
love…I see, at the top of that very hill. A raven feeds. Intrinsic.
SHE, MESSIAH
Mother Mary, I have
decried you often, perhaps the taste of your tears would elevate I into a state
of acceptance but…why? Theological idealisms penetrate such stale and delicate
psychosis. No, this sadness is in the bones and the universe, this entropic
episode resonates but…
When will it stop for
crying out loud?
I remember laughing at
the sensation of my father’s beard upon my cheek…
This hill is chthonic,
particles and atoms collide the higher I get, is that the sun or…is it fire? A
golden seizure, irascible menace in the sky – the plains I can see over the
summit.
There’s a constant
autumn here; it paints a tiresome romance, the hypocrisy of these lands bemuse
me, there’s eternal dusk and perpetual autumn yet there’s a fierce sun, white
hot, a mist hovers near the peak like a crown; an heir of acceptance.
Oxygen decreases before
the vestibule of a higher hemisphere. I lay amidst the mist sodden grass, the
white dress envelopes me, I shiver, crestfallen idiot…the vessel beats, a flow
of blood pervades the empty veins, a thin residue blankets the lonely anatomy –
Retribution will be my
descent. Idol of failure. Yet this wonder succumbs to me, she, my lovely
growing she, sparks of Eden, a supernova heart that I am so enamoured to grasp.
Ambivalence…settling, liberty foils in sadness, no more chains for thee.
AND DARKNESS COMES...
Abyss of bone.
Tears of flesh.
Wound of a sorrow
misunderstood; reciprocated from a mundane melancholia in a vortex of
decomposition…rapid, fetid mutilation in the course of the unforgivable
erosion…cells have gone, unfettered unto a dust of what was.
A father in a jaded
veil. Cocooned in a vacuum out of my reach.
Lord, I know I mock
thee due to the abuse of this abusive humanity but…
No, no, I can’t betray
my own thesis, my own poetry for the need of
Your lie. No matter
how I plead to your nothing, he will still pass.
Suffer. Fall into
flies’ mouths. There’s no rapture for I. This squalor, here, a carcass embalmed
in a denial that is not palpable.
I see the veins.
Dark blue.
The blood that made
me.
Where are them saints
now?
The cinders of Babylon
cursing these chambers with cruel and wretched significance.
I breathe in the train
smoke of Auschwitz. The cold. The thinning of flesh…
Gnawed bone. My fear
dining on the skulls of children. Chthonic slumber. I compel myself to this
emptiness.
This design; made of
mourning. Deadened leaves scatter and dance in morbidity.
I am not I. I is my
father, the father of I and the son of what I was once.
This chrysalis seeps
afterbirth.
God is chalk lined.
The saints perish in my questioning. Eyeless serpents absorb the shades to this
chamber to that I am confined to. Echoes of my father’s last disorientated
words; the grasp of death has him drunk for he, in the utmost agony, despairs
and contorts as he cries
“No, no, no, no…”
MOURNING, BETRAYAL OF...
Sunlight vanquishing.
A heavy grey lulls above.
I have conquered the
hill yet not I…
There’s faded flesh.
Gaunt and pallid, I fall onto the muddy mound,
In uterus except
aborted, sullen…despair yet again, the paramount grief
Like a pendulum
cutting the bowels,
A flood of entrails,
the spleen of discourse;
A crescendo of ashen
memories
Disembodied, broken
and sublime.
I foil and wait for
the flies,
That’s all there is…
The repellent of,
Forsaken.
CRAIG PODMORE 2014 ©
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