The Nature of Sacrifice

It was a moving train, stilled as its home station. Old, Bettina green and black like the piers, but filled with thick woods of ceremony, blood and dirt, bark reaching up high past the open ceiling, where the others invisible in trees found themselves watching us. No windows, but pale, far off sunshine. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t Here anymore.

The experience was a ritual simple and pure as the snow that fell. It fell from a higher sky, like golden stars shimmering in neutrality, floating down and changing from gold to white, a rushing stream. All over us. You were there, and you were as Christ. I was too, though I couldn’t see to tell. The snow came down harder in its stars, caking on your hands, which were mine. Hurting, from the intense cold of it. Stinging our faces. I told you without speaking that we had to bear the pain, and you did.

Then, you were in a hot fiery furnace, aching your eyes and tumbling limbs at me as to why. I placed you there, but I was in the fire with you. You rolled around as a pig without a spit in that rusty orange barrell and came back again; you were re-forged, made into yourself once more. The cold was gone. We joined up as humans and tried to make the train connections to the show. Timetables, conductors and our starry snowfall; Christ burning alive without a cross - we came back from the abyss like gods, though still ourselves the whole while, and not on time.

But we had each other for the long train ride out east, smelling like ocean.
It was a good show.

You've been blocked.

By a man with a Quill, taunting you and poking it at your face.
Writer's block disguised in busy busy busssssssy.

So, out comes the past again, for now.

I Think this reads less flowery if read as the Beastie Boys song "3 minute rule". Figure that one out.
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“Vines” (March, 2003)

Wrote it down someplace in dream,
my jaunt ascending from the trench,
every day an old warrior prays
me not
to ever flinch,
when you came riding up beside me
paving way with sound grins
tearing lessons out of noise,
my trance home supping lemon gins.

You and me veered down diving
upon those deepest glens,
water filling up our ears baptizing us
at the bend;
bass lines they bought a groove and
took her home to bed,
rabbits strewn out of their hides,
the sun baked petals in the bread.

We went shaking down the trees so their
blossoms
then would lend,
fall back bleeding from their nest,
we might rise up on the mend;
bursting breath and smelling skin
to cruise course winds that we can feed,
at all an ungodly hour,
our roots set fire to new breed.

I’ll take you bareback through the garden
honey,
gazing you in my best-
Be my vine, palms open wide, sailing waters
pounding on your chest;
Reflections past your eyes drowned my feet
burning down in gold
every fearful, indignatious,
cowering
lie I ever told.

Never held a wider path than this
one
as it seems;
The day’s walk is just too narrow,
I can’t see beneath the trees,
but we’ll spend our nights projecting
tidal stars through current waves;
Let’s ride shotgun with the vines
undoing footsteps as we pave;

Soaring over pyramids that we dreamed,
drew and became,
it’s their passage alongside ours
that stands to make us brave.

A Night Ends at the Parliament

I hate saying this, but I am too busy to write anything new today. So, reaching back into the younger years again. From 2002 this one from a night on Dublin town with Mundy.
Good ol' times.

“A Night Ends at the Parliament”

As the fire pits in your belly take notice by the rest of the aged world, you must never forget those little games you once played, a child in self-taught banishment. You can gaze like a shaman or burn like a bride. You used to wonder aloud to the shearling clouds in your southern axes, to come along and entertain your grander notions of being loved; those awfully contrived schemes of forgetting the whole of the outside world’s heartbeats, hitting like raindrops.

Eternity in your ink dries up and you’ve nowhere bright to go but your own backgarden – clutching onto modern convenience and salty residency in the front room. So Warhol never struck a chord like dancehall did open up my bleeding limbs, doeful eyes that, bright the sight, teaching could possess, when strangest courage takes to the stage. Accepting yourself to be wise in the face of free drinks left at the back doorway. The underwater railway into your hometown, breathing raucously. Late night noise patrols slamming the silence in your wide-eyed brain, while others scratch their chins in marked stupidity and you turn away from us all to keep your fantasies to yourself without even them whispering, to flicker past your eyes.

Brown, ailing paper bags of poaching, angry stews from Saturdays come around the streets end at you, beating in two your own prizefight – without the cameras, without your gleam. But will you not open up on this terror trail, feel the skins between most stones, sink your heels, caress those souls that slink past in genuine stream.

Keep your palms over your heart’s core, boy. Step forth, strove those gentle hallucinogens in a continuous motion. Sail on with the fearless shake, a whirling dervish in ascent. Sing on, to praise every pious, worthwhile scream in the inner universe – the rest, from land, your pathway swims upon – out into the all, that truth cannot shake, out into your own very greatest beyond.