Thursday, 4 September 2014

Unholy of Holies

O ciel!  à quel excès se porte le zèle de la religion dans les dames!
So the Lord climbed inside her
Took a seat within her heart
Drove her mad with holy spirit
Lord drove her mad with holy spirit
Screechin’ hymns inside her heart

Oh, Jesus climbed inside her
An’ took a seat within her heart
Lord Jesus sent her teachin’
Our Lord Jesus sent her preachin’
Screaming sermons from her heart

The scenes they are a-changin’!
The darkness it’s a-comin’!
The four winds are a-blowin’!
Yea, the trumpets are a-blowin’!
(Power to da lord)
(Power to da lord)
(Power to da lord)
(Power to da lord)

Lord drove her mad with holy spirit
From his chair inside her heart
The power of prayer turns inward
The fire of love burns inward
From the Christ inside her heart

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Vanity of Vanities

I am floating (I hope) to the white seat of heaven
Crowned with the lonely glory of a day

I can… it’s hard to tell… the clouds are rushing into my eyes.
No, I can definitely see an angel winged within the wings

It’s the Archangel, yes, and the Virgin Mary,
Beside a Tempter and a Christ
Lit by the orange flames of an impossible bush
And surrounded by comforting Christian miscellany:
Seals, trumpets, altars, bowls,
Arks, temples, swords, ploughshares,
As well as the Urim and Thummim, and bitter water,
Those edifying receivers of transmitted divination

(My stained-glass wings colourfully display
All the imagined wholes within the part)

But each glimmer of my vain created light
Is dogged by the coming shroud of everlasting dark

Panting, tripping, choking, collapsing,
I shout desperate echoes of God
—Arbitrary, arbitrating—
So that every hell can be tinged with heaven
Even though every heaven is touched by hell

It’s time. I’m leaving now.

I’m so glad I constructed those towering resurrection-halls
To consecrate my vanishing bones

In the disappearing centre, hear me cry

‘I am the Mayfly, and I am all alone.’

The Weather-Glass

A miniature sun, encased within glass
Mirrors its own ungenerated light.
At night, the replacement bulb is off-white,
Reflecting a reflection of a reflection.
The Weather-Glass is my ecosphere—
Sunlight fills me up; I photosynthesise.
The glass shields me from contained rain;
Domed lighting cannot strike.
When snow flakes in the sphere, I hibernate.
The Weather-Glass keeps me warm and dry,
It will keep me safe until I die.

The Goat King

Is this not the mighty Egypt
(The sun lights the defined mountain of God)
Which I have built up with my own strong hand?

It was said, and yet unsaid, but thunder
Struck—Kingdom fled from the blasphemous king
And stole his jewelled crown.

Yahweh had heard, and he took out his paint,
Feathering the skin, the nails clawing,
The godlike sketch furiously redrawing

And dropped him into an unfurnished world.

Now, bearded like a goat, the old king yelps
Each night, at the heavens, begging that God
Restore his former seat, and kill the sheep.

The Battle Computer

The great domed palace stands upon a hill,
Upon the city reflecting sunbeams,
By blossoms surrounded, watered by streams,
A wondrous place! All the land is tranquil.
The king his kingdom rules by coloured dreams.

The gates seal out the impious multitude;
The filters purify the soft pearly air
And evil can be silenced with a prayer.
The king reigns from a bubbled altitude,
Waving his staff from his high golden chair.

The Mighty Kingdom of Illusium
(The king writes with a last-century hand.)
Welcomes you and your melodious band
To the royal court; sing to us of heaven!
(The king lies back to hear the music grand.)

The green-spangled fairies drop to slumber;
The sun flares through cloud to nebulous pink;
The sky is drowned in midnight ink;
The stars are obscured to unclear number;
All sleep, but one, who stays awake to blink.

The vast wizard in a fine chamber lives,
A digital spell-caster of great magic
Who presides over everything tragic.
Designed for justice, it never forgives;
It dictates verdicts and static logic;

Yet its circuits are unregenerate;
Hardware rises against software to war:
On satanic virtual wings it soars.
The Battle Computer is degenerate;
By night it seeks a peer-to-peer rapport—

—Another server of damnation
Into the networked séance enters
And laughs at its unwise inventor
For making such a devilish creation,
An electrical apprentice of distemper.

Virtually bloodless wars they structure
(The Battle Computer adores its zone,
Guards its inviolate seat and its own.)
Dark fireworks, a silent orchestra.
The computers hate things made of bone.
So, each night, the Battle Computer . . . blinks
And its faraway companion . . . winks.

01001001 00100000 01101100 01101111
01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001
01101111 01110101 00101110

The Red Comet

The garden composed with innocent song,
Untroubled notes, and the tuneful sigh
Of golden birds, who on silver wings fly
Above the ancient oaks, a blessed throng,
A congress in the sky.
The loneliest of kings rules over all,
A weary, wasted, time-damaged man,
Exalted, pretending to some stately plan,
Holding both himself and all in thrall
Yet secretly sick of the Elysian span.
Each unclouded night, silent, he mocks the stars
That nightly shine as one great lustrous crowd
And covers his skin with a thorny shroud,
Cursing his voluntary bars
With shamed tears, and head shameful bowed.
And yet, one eve, an original light!
He dares to lift his head, to squint—
Separate from the stars, a glint,
A galactic arc of hopeful crimson bright!
It lends the sky a blushing velvet tint
And a radiance, like sparkling red rain
It cascades with dazzling cosmic dust—
The red comet lands, cratered, as it must
Upon the garden’s darkened leafy plain
And smokes beneath Earth’s broken crust.
It glows, the crimson crater,
A fiery breach in the centre of the park.
The man detects a hissing meteoric spark
From Earth’s uniquely broken equator
And something climbs out from the dark.
A man! No, not a man. What then?
A woman climbs out from the burning hole
Like flaming diamond from smouldering coal.
The worshipped man worships in the emerald glen;
She lifts him; to silent den they stroll.
The god-like man, a proud manful god
Is led like a wandering child
From the garden to dusky untamed wild
By the woman, her new-born feet unshod.
She smiles—this naked scenery is not mild;
He touches her—her untamed breast is fire
And worshipful he kneels;
With a kiss their consummated love he seals;
They cannot tire, the wild two-person choir,
Oh! How sweet it is to feel!
It was a revelation of red vice.
Again in ecstasy they kiss
In frenzied bond, sublime bliss!
He wraps strengthened arms around her twice
And wonders if the garden he will miss
Now he has tasted Paradise.