Plias Mourner

The lately leaden anchor upon my head brings me slowly,
slowly,
closer, closer,
to the heart of the earth;
I sink into its dirt mirth,
with a fantasy of mired hopes always diverting the tryst of it.

Down there,
the dear divulging of the reverie of maudlin birth, a paganesque existence, clamouring beyond the barred bones of ancestors and inspirators. Ecce homo - quid est ergo tempus?

I wonder: do the bells ring belated after the last of the species is dust?
I am a woman, a grungling, bumbling, mumbling thing - I seek my mark no longer.
Here, the lovers carved on a tree,
here,
the boy buried a box with his cloves and dove feathers.
Predicted, they, no aerie silence as such will follow - did they lie in wait for my heart?
Yes, I'll apprehend their loresong, but my dear heart rends, it does, for the meagreness with which i'll offer their hallowed store a telling tale, to speak back to the spoken, ennui of my memory...

I lay in the dirt, patting upon two oval stones placed each equidistance apart, fitted under my hands and they sing forth a thick patta-patta-pat-pat-patta-patta-patta-pat-pat.

Achew a chew a new chew in this rough. Had I been a bird my life would be rife with this stuff. Swallow the slimey composter and take to the air - there's my flighty metaphor and I'll move it upon the wind - away!

No, that is not my fate.

I am not only belated, but late.
I wish to mince and pinch my skin, this rovermery chose de beau. A quandary ancient woman I'd much prefer be! Where the heights of authority lay in the fine command of a village, a knowledge of the seasons, in being a clever seamstress and weaponsmith. Here, to render a fire, commence this making - a young doe, noble jeune, too young - we must make balance with the earth - I keep the largest fire in my hearth, sing a solemn myth of the beginning and end and our promise for the present to keep.

I spoke to my heart to rise and there, before me, the afternoon sun strew its haze orange light across the yawning plain. Brulé, my back, dark and muddy my limbs. The key elements of a supplication lay upon my lips, but with the image alone -- nothing was rendered to the light. A strong, stuttered breath and I moved my body across the land. Grave, willowy waif.

The Vale of my Youth

A poem for you all (anyone who lives in suburbia can relate):

Vale of migrant youth-
a copious valley draught and sate
while black laces of yellow striped grud
splay over an indian burial ground-
vital lines for quell spaces
where no bodies thrive

Seat of bodiced woe-
the colour of pigs unfed-
A wide yawning chump sky
looming over the valley of the dead

Rank malt gloom seer fascion
High, mute invitations to cope
Dare we speak the words bravely
of our honest fears and hopes?

Singly a deep love is birthed
from the chapel-white samesonry--
Here I write in cheerless mirth,
such phrases known only to Agony.

Playing Mother

"Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of... Night!"

Sit down at my feet, young peddler, and let me speak to you of the most mysterious myth, an invention like Blake's Tyger, of such terrible beauty, of such hideous origins. Origins, indeed, that will have you shallerying around the vales of your youth and piecing together in memory that insingular moment of loss. We were all childers once. Mum to my past: here I play a mummy for you mummers and murmerers, mollifying my mawkish memory. Read it all above - I've aged just twenty years, but my soul speaks eternally. Peg into that smile of mine you see: What does it say? Is it "joy, landlocked, in a body that doesn't keep"?

There's the riff, you and I aren't dissimilars. For my joy also wants eternity, wants deep, deep eternity. I want fictions, but not such gods and demons as have been propogated through the centuries. No, no – listen: we shall not have any unnecessary fictions.

Care to join, young 'ouns?

Procureth thine razors from thine pocket that hath inscriben upon its surface "Property of Sir Occam" and taketh these razors to all inflatious affronts, to all extrapropigal muddities, to that which would stinge and ewify the world which seemeth in-deed composed of such untainted beauty that it needeth not embarass (the verb in spanish: embarazar - to make pregnant) itself with the empty spaces given names by ancients. Those ancients who thought what hurt should be called morality, that what was unpredictable should be called God, and that death was really only the beginning of a new life.

Fin, again! Found a counfounding variable, didn't I? Turn'd it 'round! Tell me peddle-man, tell me, tell me, tell me, realm! Will we compose short stories in the presence of Godge? Will we be able to play our rock music and repair computers for the angels? Or is it simply that this eternity is simply an escape from your worldly life? Agitashition!

Now:

If any of you can establish one non-instinctual universal for me - I'll accept heavean (heaven). No qualms about it, just give me that (one).