AN EPISTLE TO THE BURNING MAVERICK EMO

4:30 A.M. Friday, 14th September, 2007


The burning heart in the deeply dark night lonely burning
sees only the darkest vision of its being slowly turning,

turning into a silent scraping at the shut doors of life returning
all claims of blood and soul to the lonely heart lonely burning.

You are that other one who comes ever silent.

You have spoken of some singular sense,
speaking also of sense shutters shuttering
all songs seeking safe sibilation
but all the more strangely silent, waiting

waiting, as more others would say,
for a wan, very-other-like, wasted way
of the weakened world always dying
to open up, shore up its death-songs,

in death or in life burning,
burning and turning,
and returning.

To you,

our loved eye,
our hated heart,
naked heart, lonely soul
only soul burning,

to you I remit this epistle -

this is my ever-strengthening vision
of most ends burning.

UNKNOWABLE LINES

I see everything by the twilight's last glimpsing of songs
and moons and dusks and long abated blissful nights
that were once heavenly but are now faded
into knowable oblivion - and I wait for more,

more fulfilling visions of darkly humming bridges
and rivers at sundowns and sunrises.

Everything is soft and pliant here
as in a memory-charm
created to bamboozle urgently beating fists
upon doors that do not open, never open at all,
except for specifically shrouded blue-moon nights.

Many generations have passed into known history.
Many hours and cruxes-in-time so simplified
have watched us grow together, my loved land.

Nearly a hundred years in wakefulness have I floundered
in wide open dualised arms, but still,
still I do not know your names, your eyes and your lives,
I, living engendered, vastly dismembered, mostly endangered.

Many knowing moments of iron-clad worship
at evenings during the time-goddess's mad dance
across courtyards I remember even now
as sad and great and as vibrant in untimely time
as a single Bloody Mary.

And of songs sung from doors to windows
fluttering as sexist statements from pillars to posts
and empty roads in a curfewed dusk
with that lonely bag of rice standing all alone by itself,
waiting for a liberator, a saviour and his hands
that are the hands of a healer.

What do I gather here - nothing
except only knowledge of things to come
and things that have been
and may be those that will rain down again,
swift and soft and hardening then as rocks
that are borne so caringly, sparingly
by the fertile womb of confusion.

My land in dreams and in knowing discombobulation,
nice words long ones and extremely religious ones these are,
the ones that I curse onto your newest life, your ancient names
and your twisted, ever turning, always meticulously burning
surprisingly maturing visages that you hide.

Many leaves have faded as mortal butterflies
once out of the cocoon, ever fated to fly, ever hated
by everything that loves and longs indubitably
for timelessly sweet, saddening eyes.

Many songs have been sung, many copper bells
in significant hour-endings have been rung.
Many a nephilus has flown to heaven and back.

So many moments, immoment, graceful, have passed,
and nearly a hundred years as well,
but still I do not know your names,
nor you and your lives.