Götterflängerung

Fire, the great commotion of fire
In the hair of the trees fire swans erupt
As the Twilight of the Gods is breathing down
Oh, brother of ore
Feel it's winged wrath
Hear it's [up]roar and it's whisper
Behold it's phosphorus shadow
Wrought in the halls of Molok
Oh, brother, listen!
Silence your song of the ore
Then come, set out!
And go with the rushing sky

That Land - That Time

In cruel April when the waves spread your hair,
Where the wheels run wilder on the red sand,
Where the photos never fade -
There is a fire lit in the belly of the whale,
Fiery were the fists then, darker.
The thunder spoke there
and the gods trampled us to dust.

Haircut - Shoeshine - Death toll

It's been a while. Nothing new produced lately, but today I feel like unloading some compressed summer frenzy. Not that the summer is a summer. Its cornered, half-baked intentions and a rain drenched, wicked smile. Soon autumn will come to bring down the house.


Mistress! Mollify my momentary mischief and take my bones for drumsticks!
You see it, the chicken gumbo and the derelict whalebones.
You can touch it, taste it.
You and we can bring down the sun and centrifuge the sea in our gravitational pull.
Our tongues would crush diamonds.
In our wake, gods evaporate.
And so, my mistress, I await your command.
Take my intestines for scarf, my skin for coat.
My pale, peeling skin with teeth's tattoo.
Brake my sweat and fall in with my steps.
We shall witness the advent of miracles.

The Primordial Trace

We can strive but never get there. Is that not what we say when we meet? We just dream of that glowing orb within the folds of our rumbling flesh and mind, within and between our opaque words. I dreamed of smelling cold spring grass - no words were needed to explain the scent. We trace and trace again. We follow to where the stepping stones are sundered and the footprints dissolve. The natives of our youth waves in the distance, as if greeting the ones coming home - home to rest and play. But reaching for it proves its illusory nature. Yet you with your childish ways, you trace and trace again.

Over the ridges

I had a sensation of omnipotence earlier today. As if the only obstacle was to fill my backpack and exit the front door, and head for a distant shoreline. The question arose though: would you follow me if I take another path than the one laid out for me, for us? I think you would. I could dress in a loincloth and you could be Jane. We could live in an alley jungle and live a dream of urban decay. That would be swell! You and me, in another place with model clay circumstances and with an eye for the picturesque within gray stone and throbbing sound waves. Or, you could be Tarzan and I could be Cain, and Abel would visit during late afternoons, bringing fresh baked cookies and sing like Jacques Brel. There, panting in between motherly brick walls. There, panting... there. Hear me Jane! We together! We without purpose, yet infinity at hand! Save us, oh heavenly Father for we will sin! As surely as the stillborns don't cry, we will falter at your gate. Thus, all is well, all is swell!