a wound of clarity.

It came in the mail,
A broken cup.
Silken and strange
Its package of deceit.
I drank from the vessel
and my lip was cut.
A wound was made
I could not speak.
My mouth was but filled
with nectar and blood.
As the sender had willed
or had hoped to achieve.

The deed had been done
the blow had been struck.
And it was this day
I was forced to believe:

It is not without hurt
my beloved thirst.
Not free of treachery
is my hearts resident curiosity
And not without pain
my colourful lust.
Though endowed with pleasure
it is a fragile feast.
Though wise my friends,
Clever still my enemies.

an epiphany in eden.

Of the daughter in my mind,
and the sun i've crucified,
they are looking unto me...

Of the heathen in his head,
and the lovers in their bed,
they are never asleep...

Of the poet in his night,
sipping poison divine,
so painfully serene...

Of the pen that bleeds rhymes,
and makes manifest in lines,
scratched silent screams.

the sweet straggle.

The dogs of dogma at my door,
not for long did they stay.
With my mind and its whores,
i was well entertained.

The words of sermons
through the window pane,
ah they were surely in vain,
presumptious and flawed,
this theosophy inane.

Ah!
But I danced and i swayed,
to the music that was played,
by my friends and their fingers,
and their souls untamed,
and it was surely here,
i found solace.

So I danced and i swayed,
and as the priest said i strayed,
from the road that is holy,
and the path sacred.

Till I came upon a garden,
in air the ground lay,
And as i ventured further,
I was shouted afar nay!

'Tis is for the pilgrims,
the lovers of colour,
and the patrons of baked clay.

I absorbed the riddle,
I understood what the voice spake,
it was us of the arts,
us mortal gods,
to whom mention was made.