The the the the the run! Of the litter!
Never fall never tall always more ever scorned but forever torn
and left broken bleeding sighing sleeping on the train tracks at night
where the end of the world sings in the distance with the homeless heroes and villains
who saw the future in the bottle's broken glass,
and pierced their flesh with nothing more than God's grace,
who flew over streetlamps at night and cried for their brethren living in comfort beneath the sorrowed moon and stars.
What could possibly go wrong, now that Christ swims in their blood?
The smoke clouds their eyes and they cough
and wipe the spit and emphysemic tar from the palms of their hands
clouding over a full moon like spots of cancer on an x-ray
Former beauty lost now in feathers and cotton
hand-picked by a dozen somethings with nameless fury and absent-minded sickness
careful careless coughing still with phlegm clinging to the back of their throats
sure footed mountain goats climbing slopes, groping for handholds and handhelds
a shaking camera
"This is the truth of the matter, beyond dispute, hear now the voice of honesty."
But a sudden gust and off they go go go blown away, a leaf on the wind sinned cleaned cleansed fenced off black make-up goth, drawn to the light.
Mock it, kiss it, punch it, kick it, scream scream scream scream scream until your lungs give out.
Until the words form themselves and a new language of rage and betrayal speaks unbidden in the mouths of all people,
a tongue that wriggles and seethes alongside your birthtongue and strangles it, withers it,
tears it from its roots so you must spit it out,
wet and pink on the dirt.
Anger is your voice now.
Your voice? Your. Voice? Your. Voice? No it speaks itself. Looked for a host and found everyone with wings of black feathers and golden candleholders dripping wax of a thousand bees and birds and sex made cold and hurtful shadows them day and notday,
With dark spirals concentric eccentric rings emanating from those green green eyes,
Irises and pupils and students of archaic literature and ancient religions now discredited,
theatrical gods with interest in naught but themselves and selfish bastard children
inheriting their parents' disdain,
reading Beckett and Shakespeare at 1300 hours with one eye closed,
reading Sophocles and Sappho, Yeats and Plath,
Proclaiming poetry Dead As The Dodo,
Burning Ibsen for abject blandness, celebrating Strindberg for his female horror,
Touching themselves and each other with Cronenberg's nightmares playing out across a wall in the background,
Lynching their childhood fairtales,
Wearing Red Shoes that dance no longer,
Wearing masks of stolen human skin, faces without lips or eyelids,
blank expressions for a sense of authority.
Commanding a New Age of Literature, and Law, and Love (another defunct concept; see also "fucking").
Forget the old ways!
Today is a new day! A new daze! A new craze, a phase, a transition between the now and the never and what could possibly go wrong? This is an old song, the Golden Age is gone, it never WAS and never WILL BE but tell me that things were better once and raise that flag above your head with all its stripes and dragons, bears, beasts and swordsmen,
Beatmakers, boybands, and pop starlets all, you can tube can hit can record can be can better can than ever can Kant can't forget or forgive what meaning you gave your life, was it to improve your lot or help others? Sleep on it.
Tomorrow you'll feel better.
When the ghosts are under the cupboard and in your bed,
the monsters restored to their place at the head of the table.
Titan, Olympic. That's you.
Nightly you live it over.
In our eyelashes, in our tear glands, in our yearnings for opposition,
in our shock, our stripped amygdalas unable to offer even a crippled comfort,
there is something.
But I refuse to valorise defeat.