A Blog for Random Writings of Mine

The Thunder of David #68: In the Fifth Tone

No longer let our voices fall to a whispering march of death. Jam your baritones and inflections through songs for a god gone dead Make the earth shudder under your footsteps as you let the wind take the pages like a flickering flame Make your presence known through the howling sleet and rain - scream in the faces of distorted kings, spit on their robes and shit in their eyes Cast your fury like the waves and witness the smoke of god vanish in the shadow of a cat, feast upon the words that wither like the grass Smear the self indulgent prophets in sweat and mud, drown the child of the Euphrates and piss on his holy stone Go horse in your burning wrath, sodomize wretched Isaiah, suffocate him in the wallowing tears of Job, let the blood of your hatred flow like wine Drink of your consummate supplication steeped in rage and disgust. Let it sustain you to shake the pillars and columns of his temple to the ground Dictate your commands and bask in the boundless power your existence brings t...

Fall..

Smoking, I stand on my porch watching the wind thrash at a dying cotton wood. It's noble looking in its annual death, a skeleton of a life that once was – even so short. Endless oranges and reds are torn from it – igniting the gray sky in a flurry of death. No screams, no sorrow – just the emotionless wind that tosses my hair and sets free my dear motionless friend from life. A life revolving around growth and color – nothing more, how I wish a death was so tranquil, perhaps serene, just a common step, and yet in my mind it is not. The color of my life, or the grayness thereof, will fall just as these leaves but will I take it in such an orgasm of color? Will the winds of time and life be violent or calm – colors floating listlessly to the ground or ripped in anger from my dying limbs, to be blown about in chaos, confusion, to be forgotten in the haze of a wintry death? Snubbing the smoke, I climb down to the tree. Putting my face to the cold life-death skin – its rough, smells of ...

Inside

"There's a chaos inside that 'll not die down." Unsteady gale wind whips at hair rips souls from their bones leaving corpses of naked bodies curled and crying, wet and muddy Blackness, sound of breathing a scream that wallows, tares from the intestines spewing brown bile, lead heavy words "You'll not drown in a wake of your own making." Shoving gravel through eye sockets, dreading tomorrow caught in a web of mucus, rotting tobacco leaves, dust of glass sprinkled on tongues Empty bottles of fire sing heavy somber tunes, tumbling off the end of the earth, cutting the heads of goddesses bathing in the stars "Turmoil inside suffocates tomorrow and the next." "I know."

Let the Words

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