Godhead

Godhead

How did we manage to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge

to wipe away the horizon? What did we do, when we unchained

this earth from its sun?

Father

I am the dreams you can not have, the crimes

that smuggled words beyond the watershed,

and scripture uttered hiding laity signs

to undermine the young until they're led

to search for lesser feats than parting seas.

I am the gate that keeps the tide at bay—

made dauntless rain that undisputed cleaves

through temples and the unforgiven clay.

So make me yours: trust my fiat will give

you power over throat and gun, a bliss

of everything, and whispers that deceive

away from worlds and from their nothingness.

I, shadow of the shadows you’ve become;

the link that keeps your star aside the sun.

Son

Start by asking for company. Memorize the names.

Your hand protean and our roaring world shames

soldiers into wells of words, cattle into bags of swords

and blue-blood flasks that tinkle into meniality. You

have the burden to return, and change submissive chests

into an accolade of songs, liberty into a child that longs

for home but sails alone and willingly,

and cracks the bones of fiends in ornament,

in mantles and in memories, in individual violet; and the death

that sticks you so away that your voice enfeebles, and keeps

the news afar that the wind is random, that the lees

are human and transmutation maturation only.

Holy Ghost

skin neath red light, godfright, fistfight

deitying we lay and if we keep it this way

we might just climb up all the way there to a jealous holy,

a sinking folly of fasting and fast prayer, of layer upon layer

of cicatrices taken for relic wood, sepulchral food and monuments that indent the sky,

rye cathedrals of cartilage, spit-drenched mithraistic mysteries,

statues of fat apostles that all their life kept from their poultry's view

that they knew all about when flesh

and marble mesh