autumn 2

[Sepia]

Are we death or life, are we great or grand? Humble giants against a fading night, blood seeping through the cracks in the ceiling and up above we hear the old god, job's god, forgotten only for a brief instant. In moments like these, the only moments we remember, we are shepherded back into the fold and we hear them sharpening their knives before they fall on the board. Gremlins of desire, short and diluted into the river they call time/life but it works like a magazine, you flip one page at the time and if the binding is correct there is no beginning, no start nor end. Chosen by stupidity we went further into dark, shocks were found daily as we woke into the mirror and climbed into the shower,

anything to wake us up. I was dreaming of us again and I remembered I had forgotten you and like that I fulfilled the prophecy and became closer to something I used to hate and I know perceptions change, you grow up, everything turns in different directions but I think I was smarter then when I was younger, now dulled because of neglect and abuse. The shadow will span all this world, all this empire. We learned that those who do not learn their history are doomed to repeat it and that was the truest thing I heard in school because we don't learn from others mistakes, we learn by doing our own and we will do that until empire has withered, turned to chalk and dust, dry glass glinting under a broken sun.

I miss them now, my old men. My old bitter men, sitting under an umbrella, no, they are being shaded by giant leaves held in the arms of young african boys and the old men look at them with pity, remorse and attraction. The weird monsters drinking negronis, ricards, whiskeys and cognacs that made their life by dissecting and vivisecting the ordinary life, malformed deviants in the eyes of a proper and well-behaved commune. It took old bitter men to make me love poetry but still I love only theirs, their bitter words filled with schadenfreude, mystical minds that understand what will happen but have no way in conveying it to us other than through emotional aggregates.

I wish I saw ozymandias, I wish I had peered upon the sky when the wax began to melt, I wish I was there in the townsquare when Abdul Al-Hazred was torn, I wish stood by the thames when a naked man was seen running and jumping into it but no splash was heard. As rasputin and his giant cock emerged from the icy water, that's where we should have been so we could have seen what would happen.

Where are/is /we going? We went a long time ago but still can't find it, we hear men speak of the truth and lies of others and we hear whispers of the promised land and we listen like everyone else listens, like everyone else never reads the gossip mags, and we repeat the errors that were made earlier. We can flood this planet with information but most of it will remain a raw chunk of data until someone changes it. Where is the heart

[Adios]

The day to day survival has ripped the heart out and shredded it to ribbons.