Another Bell Has Sounded:
They are Awake, They are Alive and Well, So Howl

I.

It was as if every part of him was meant for you
to slowly devour,

as the witness of tomorrow walked into the crowded streets and caravans

left with village bands playing only 35 minutes outside the wedding gazebo
atop its majesty,
Galilee.

Is it she?


II

But the truly free can only shelter their eyes
and avert their fragmented stares,

while the congregations light themselves a-fire
and consume their glory with righteous airs.

And i still stink of their petty hatreds moving through every pore
towards our hearts through vein,

as they shed themselves with waves of explosions
like rocket ships moving asunder Pan Am planes.

Their passengers are soon calling
for their loved ones hearts and minds,

oh but the lime's riddled with children dying like they're
tip toe 'in firecrackers torching
what's left of time,

of what will soon be cremated prayers rising
above an old, coca cola bottling company,

while dastardly men chant to their spouses to,

"Never despair, my darlings."

The black crow, Vengeance, appears out of nowhere but somewhere
-he's now hidden in mid air-

Like he is their savior,
so sleek and debonair,
hulking over the lampost eyeing if only to declare,
posturing like some
modern day Stalin:

"It is best for them,

as we

must

refrain

from

such

needless

coddling."


III

The sideways, side streets are left with grenades
and a broken lemonade stand.

The faces are left to live in the clutches of their vigilant histories, as they celebrate the self-destructive natures of man.

Their guns start firin' off,
Their silos start blowin' off,
as missiles lift off from
the confines of nice, sheltered homes,
lost in the shadows of another high noon.

Soon emerging only to,
surging through surburbia too,
ensuring they hurry and move
their careless lawn jockeys rusting in the background,
playing their most favorite baffoon.

In the reality of today, the fictions of yesterday become futures
present in a fury of gun shells
bombarded with calls for another Nagasaki, as

memories of faces become frozen Pompeian traces
of our ancestors blowing their sloppy kisses
of reminder that read:

"This is upon thee!"

Didn't they listen?
Didn't they read the books we wrote?

In the dazzle of their TV's,
they lie dormant in safety,
their mouths formed as long and vacant O's,
left only to corrode
in a veil of nuclear peace,

through out every town
every city,
nook and cranny,
every coliseum and thunderdome.

It was on wallpaper,
it was staining their carpets,

living through the miracles of resurrection
hanging around their chests, ever known,

that all long

it was in the center of their eternal union,
inside the might of their

homogenous homes.

im the fibonacci sequence of the thirty second degree
with the framework of a lion the neck burn bruise bleed
feeding on the memory of those roaring tides
moving in the strides in line with your sight
can't they open they eye?
will they open in time?
dont they ever want the freedom of a higher design?
if we understand us fully, we'll never be benign
as we move into the portals of the third space in time,
im in 6 different worlds
im with 6 different girls
i got strings of merit lined with satin skeleton pearls
but the deal breaker is not to forsake her
and move from the seat

you must trust me,
you must open,
you must fucking believe

like clouds flamed with fire as the maidens stop and grieve
and these dames called desire start move up my knees
and in the flurries of their moaning i start to float in waves

the missions of her movements never led me astray
so we tagged the signs of every building, reading

"it was the end of our days"

so we're parting with strokes
so we're starting to grow
so you will very soon and very frequently certainly know
as the lights turn off and you heat up and glow
as its whispered

the messiah was born
not by the virgin mary
but by the
two G's

super

funky


flow

Tales From Beyond the Galactic Fog

We should all learn to heed their warning
beyond,
beyond the fog,

wasted mines
abandoned by
shaded signs
sun spots evaporate the writhing rivers of time.

If we soon begin and give in to the inherent magic,
turn off the lights,
our eyes glow,
they’re red and gone,

robotic in the emergent mysteries of dawn.

With the swaying of littered light posts
somehow the signal still lingers on
through musty facades
of heightened cavalier calls

beyond,

beyond the fog.

In the ashes of their institutions,
their libelous pupils are dilated
transmitting the final distress call
the wavering hipsters and children cry
clouds burst into flames

he breathes and appears

beyond,

beyond the fog.

i am the flame that draws the creepiest moths

The Morrigan

“Glom! and Glaim!”
She whispers
these names
Over the moss green hills and misting rain

she turns
from blue
to grey

in the cliffs of moor in the form
of her cattle crow and her red eye
albino steed

the deeds are known
by the ancient throne’s
magicians whose bones

are cast
at last
with her phantom reign
she moved through glass
and reached out to me

calling out over

the fields
the planes
the infinite terrains
of her chorus and the
daylight’s

final remains

with the eel
the wolf
the red heifer
the folk
all in unison
all in a clashing stride a-midst a blind stampede
still moving in three, still living to grieve
still in rivers of her marrow slithering through seas

until it’s on and on
while my eyes are closed and dawn
is intertwined in the silver linings of time and thought

into the oceans
she pushed me off

(last 3 lines spoken)

---let music continue for 15 seconds, couple measures--

she was standing there, trying to show someone
how to pry open the gate hidden in
mid-day, tarry smokestacks
there were two kids wearing Dallas cowboys hats
while staring out the rental car passenger seat
I see her form whizzing by rolling over stones
saying something to me in the midst of her rivers and valleys
she is chanting some kind of ancient poetry
driving me into her oceans
swimming in the storms of her battle torn history
seeing my ancestors breathing in divinity
sitting on stone gravel and nodding to me
pointing at the horizon’s chaotic placement of stones,
still hearing her call, chanting her victory
with the crow letting them know that

I am not an enemy,
I am an Irishman