32

The best minds of my time are racked by fear,
by the blinding cut of release in light,
by the flailing emptiness that is near,
where passage is clear, but the time ain't right:
And it's never right, right? But it keeps on
calling, beckoning in its ritual
immanence; Oh wait – just maybe it's gone –
You happy now? Speciously spiritual?
No, it never goes, silly, just keeps on
throbbing and wailing like gilt popcorn seeds
waiting ecstatic to be tossed at dawn
into the oil pigments of our deeds:
I guarantee you this: that paint and blood
will splatter: a guilt grain – a fruitful flood.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s