Monday, July 27, 2015

nΩtes on the deliverance øf a new friEND : decelerator

I've been accused of taking things personally, "too serious" says the trickster!
but Death is my Dance, Death is my Game
tragic is my comedy

and with a grin and gallows humour I blow my trombones
haunting hunting trills on ribcage xylophones
a smiling skull sighing out a groaning moaning poem
to annihilate your dreams of Home.

Señor Coyote, I may not understand your dance (I'm not omniscient, even at my best)
but I understand the bee's dance
the tree's dance 
when the wind wilds the way
before a thunderstorm collapses the world and
sends you quivering cowering underneath my laughing leafing beard.

Your speed will be needed Little Brother, because
I am a fucking glacier
a bone-bleaching desert,
the deep ocean beyond sight of land
that ancient battlefield behind the tobacco farm out past the church
that glows godless spectral at 3am soul's midnight
as Valhalla spews forth ragged companies of all my
special sons and daughters

 I am

the deep down things of long-dead Gods and Outer Time
the swamping corpse of rivers dying
that hole in the world you can't define behind your eyes

labyrinthine wake-ing dreaming you can't divine and can't divide.

Señor Coyote, the raccoon has your magic,
and an opposable thumb,
and superior climbing ability,
and a willingness to sink to the sewer to survive,
My master lockpick when keys
are lost to lycanthropy
but if you seek to sneak me, searching, peeking for sneaking ankles to bite
the ash you'll taste in mouth is I, as We wheel and caw
contemplating murder.

Señor Coyote, I can feel your sneaking footsteps swift across my shoulders.
I hear you running over the ground down bones of a million of your brothers,
broken-backed by brighteyed wolves howling voids at starring skies,
by relentless Time, or stealth-perched panther's eyes.
come inside the crucible, the hurricane of Nature's Eye and learn to teach the I and I to Die.

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