Lonely Meeting-Place
I called out lonely forgiving what went down into the depths.
I wrote one way what I was beginning.
I reworked the frustration and sought temptation
To rise like a steam over the bog lands.
And I dug deep into the soil to pull out limbs with my toil
And I made an assemblage and I made it walk
It was a living priest whom I did defrock
All limbs all mutiny brine and brim water
I sought to stop him as he brought down his catharsis
And resolution
I sought only dissolving and reminded him of having an author
He didn't question but asked of the raven
Who ate the liver and was the redeemer
So I buried him again not wanting to dig him up
For he feared his imagination and made the soil grow too fast
Around him was a garden with bog water running through it.
I sequestered this image and placed it like a crown chief among my memories
As the ghost called out to me. I knew no image but a shank of metal
Taken from my prison prior to this barren utopia.
I sought Christians and Muslims, gays and straights (and the secret in-between).
I made a raft that brought me here, delinquent masses seeking me
The raven swooped and dove at my raft
Knowing his own limitations.
The author wrote about him on the first day,
Who fed of the flesh for his own pleasure
And recaptures the daemon that went before
On its haunches the first attempt out of Eden
Is this bog in silent requiem dividing my soul
Between muck and fucked backwards down the side of a hill.
Such are the children's attempts at paradise.
I wrote one way what I was beginning.
I reworked the frustration and sought temptation
To rise like a steam over the bog lands.
And I dug deep into the soil to pull out limbs with my toil
And I made an assemblage and I made it walk
It was a living priest whom I did defrock
All limbs all mutiny brine and brim water
I sought to stop him as he brought down his catharsis
And resolution
I sought only dissolving and reminded him of having an author
He didn't question but asked of the raven
Who ate the liver and was the redeemer
So I buried him again not wanting to dig him up
For he feared his imagination and made the soil grow too fast
Around him was a garden with bog water running through it.
I sequestered this image and placed it like a crown chief among my memories
As the ghost called out to me. I knew no image but a shank of metal
Taken from my prison prior to this barren utopia.
I sought Christians and Muslims, gays and straights (and the secret in-between).
I made a raft that brought me here, delinquent masses seeking me
The raven swooped and dove at my raft
Knowing his own limitations.
The author wrote about him on the first day,
Who fed of the flesh for his own pleasure
And recaptures the daemon that went before
On its haunches the first attempt out of Eden
Is this bog in silent requiem dividing my soul
Between muck and fucked backwards down the side of a hill.
Such are the children's attempts at paradise.