As If to Profane the Blasphemous, How Irreverence Now Descends on Our Vacancy the Way Fate Swallows an Eclipse (Poetic Justice)


Projecting unconscious consequences,
     if it’s only my truth, then it’s

not the truth, objective objections, more
     real than an ideal, mouthful of

vibration needing cuts to heal opens
     a pathway through the wound of which

lips kneel, hear in this temple what wet tongue
     kisses conceal, dead languages

feeble when feeling is the only thing
     real, death without a beard, bard who,

instead of prolonging weakness, causes
     it to peal, yields to lungs wanting

more than anything to expel song, pent
     exasperation aches wasting

a moment spent hesitating taking
     too long to wail tempers its pale,

ailing cavern the temperature of
     a distant hermitage wherein

an abandoned penitent ends up changed,
     painted crimson, craven in his

raving’s oblivion of invisible
     chains as a sore throat all the more


miserable for being ignored, for
     having to burn within what would

scorch the world if let out, tortured if at
     all even ever heard, ringed with

ribs of doubt, this mouth’s depth a swelling bell
     concealing beneath oyster-grey

layers of leathern silence padding walls
     of flesh pressing against which rough

reminiscences of brash brushes with
     brazen craziness pearls of teeth

reflect, how sudden speech shatters all with
     a well-hung tongue every rent

sentiment coming undone, wringing cheeks
     to psalm hymnody none but those

who hear revere, were the Demiurge to
     succeed in his dirty work how

empty would we perceive this illusion
     to seem, thankfully, then, for us,

when Saturn warned us to let December
     in Capricorns descended on

our vacancy the way fate swallows an
     eclipse, clenches in a winking


cinema of wincing statistics, dead
     images, pictures performing

repetitions, this fictive fixation
     of one who thrives on ordeals, when

arguing you win the definition
     of losing appeal, your wardrobe

never changes but your circumstances
     do, sent on a mission to save

me from my new friends, victims deceived by
     a vision of my being still

now someone I never was then, impressed
     by or interested in them,

even assassins recognize somehow
     re​con​nais​sance from the echo

of a sigh vanishing, of endings make
     sacred liturgy mistaken

for just a phase, fading away in faint
     vagrant places, where nothing came

to be noticed and not perceived by such
     nobodies as these, who seem to

believe reflections of abandonment
     are just promises of loss eased.