I. Prophecy of the Dusk

William Blake Satan in GloryThe Son of Man, silence surrounds a tumult void of ruined faith;
Yet, you could step into the ever flowing spring waters of eternal youth,
become a Man of Earth,
live in the light of true words,
be Aaron’s budded rod in an ever-growing sweet crops of monthly fruits
wait for the stone-wall city market tablets to crash,
heal a bitter taste of arrogance and wickedness that turns your stomach sour,
and abandon the temperance that extends
prophecy of the seven seals to every corner of already lost world;
Instead you fly on nightly wings,
–Intercontinental–
still covering background black-ops scenes of a never ending rogue day;
What are you waiting for?
You despise the conqueror’s bloody crown, and unjust wars;
You heard red horse thumping too close to neighbor doors,
crept in sighs when all was set for one to kill, stub, and devour in rage another,
and shouted in despair so many times with the last cries of the starved
A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny, and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine;
you still count land measured in pennies often paid in pounds of flesh;
yeah, living in the shadow of death, still holding onto the heart’s bond thread,
but hunting for the jackals;

bodies and land–the final collateral!
How many times have you touched in dreams that pale horse of death?
Do you still hold thee to the abomination throne decree?
It’s your moment, land now from a long flight and walk away;
Yeah, “to leave” always tastes
as a hesitant word on the lips
that stubbornly gets lost,
despite all I still whisper
through the double-edged sword of logic;
You like and hate this silent talk;
I Prophesy;
the words bring to you the locusts of unexpected wilderness of thoughts
and you’ve tried to exchange them for anything
on far Eastern markets or exotic Persian bazaars;
agate, emerald, onyx,
carnelian, crysolite, beryl, topaz, chrusophrase,
jacinth, amethyst, and break our golden long chain whispers;
you seem to know a word that spells as a nameless name of a Dragon;
a word that rises all of your blood flow through veins and arteries
and clenches a throat
crushing back to the Pleiades
where fear yields all galaxies and stars to the end of times
and takes you farther and farther away from the beginning.
Your silence is a lethal void, Son of Man;
a defiance of the surrendered plane body on a way back,
Still you are all armored while passing between stellar borders,
but you know you will break
and become a Lamb
once you meet
an eye of the stranger
in the mirror with bits and pieces of family jewelry
holding the seven stars in the right palm
longing for a twilight revelation willing
to cross off the list a long jet-legged traveler;
and you’ll come to me as a stranger.

II. Lamb Knocking at the Door of Love

William Blake Song of LossSuddenly upon your return
I heard that stranger knocking at the breezy morning
who opened the back door of my mind draws;
later, while following with a good-hearted smile all exotic stories from recent trips afar
and drowning in your sunset eyes
I flew back far East
and got lost between silk money, secret ebony cabinets
with hidden drawers and invisible letters,
yantar gemstones, musk odors
of crowded Persian rhizome bazaars;
a long screen pause read on your face
chased memories
were you hid musty street of gallows with hanging men,
cut fingers, hands, legs, bursts of blood,
and an eerie silence harboring terror of public executions
but the snap of a camera shot
caught your distant smile
in a moment when you lit the last aromatic cigar;
The stranger jailed in you made me
step out of the sapphire and pearls knitted city gates
To the omphalos of all Eaten Scrolls
Where you kissed my Risky dreams,
and let recklessly smash Jasper Hopes hidden in gilded jars.

III. Lamb and Silence of the Golden City

William Blake Jacobs LadderDo you remember the roll-over time when we met?
The new time of the Watchman?
We crossed each other on the canopy bridge while walking
to the other side that bows the Bretton Woods?
That was a day when the storm clawed and thorn the sky with the eagle power
Turning a soft night into raging far winds
free of any starting premise, a rod to measure it,
full of hidden fees, hails, tornadoes, and hurricanes
yet set to live in a dark paradox of the infinity of finite “lose to win”
future binary box?
While we were gone, far gone for some time,
I walked through the pure gold city,
all thin as a graphene sheet of mirrored Screen glass,
the city was empty and silent,
everybody too tired to marvel upon the yellow brick streets,
no temple or churches, you could sense the silence of the Metropolis;
no one heard seven trumpets,
no one saw streets glittering in pure gold,
no one remembered the Son of Man and the ultimate sacrifice,
but that night, you became the son of Light
and lit the sky of the proverbial night;
we knew that the silence is a surrender
William Blake Songs of Innocenceto the rushing noise of the Prophesy,
“Dump it”
The scorpion stings all;
while you long for death
await for the Lamb
stepping on her galactic skirt
to hold the twelve cosmic planes,
each adorned with a new beginning,
a new star of innocence.

 

 

 

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This