A Barbarian Harvest Without Wine


For my star to rise, yours has to dim, plague • kills only those who fear it most, to survive in • a kingless country an idea dead in its living body • takes another lover as a host, extremities of fear and • rage you mistake for a leg-up put you in your • place, drape fog over the wasteland where making misery into • an industry is an art-form, tears that hang from your • eyes like ornaments make waiting for it seem pointless, let • us learn to suffer patiently, a storm answers to no • one, catharsis can take ages to turn-up, insults that are • •


honours never before put to pen will put to bed • what we never could then, we are now what we • have never been, vagrants dressed as saints getting on the • nerves of angels, restless until we can contend with its • indifference to this condition we call living, an affliction to • conjure a new life with a past’s fallout, when your • body is one entire wound and your breath is cadaverous • the stripping of flesh is a privilege, the migration of • a soul toward a state of transmutation is merciful carnage, • the breaking open and the mixing with ancient wisdom its • •


escape, the fulfillment of a promise we mistake for prophecy, • quoting bullshit no one ever said, not all angels carry • harps, by now you should know this, statues saturated with • tears that trickle ichor are neither heroes nor divine, be • careful who you worship, even idols fall sometimes, Olympian spirits • will rise from your decline, since being with you has • been a barbarian harvest without wine, do not act surprised • that what I write has become so tasteless, to some • this bitterness makes for better entertainment than your foolishness that • I had to put up with when we were wed.