Ryon Shepard
08-10-2011, 07:30 PM
I
Dried heaps of slumber, this blind apostate rescinding vows to Uncle Sam, he walks backbone breaking and pouring forth Ovid's humus, root of life deep underground. The rocks of man, it tears forth from the skin now erect vertical, heliotropic, radar abacus accuse the sun, the sun that solidified, self-immolating light, late in day now all fall down. Now speak nocturnal, cast quoits to halo, mullion cross the glass out into starry space, boundaries closing eyes, argonauts orbiting deified orbs with Voorhees masks slaying selves in garish games of temporal diversion and craggy pulse of beating heartlight. The Alps speak in anemoi tongues, orchestrating exorcisms from molten cores, Zephyr and Eurus cloaked in cumulus vestments, pissing pee green upon the Earth. They seed plasmic pods of magnesium, predecessor to the mammalian age of iron, and the blacksmith forging of war-props. Mars is to come, his sentient blood soil with him, progeny donning vertebrae chains of kin recompense and indemnified for the pain of fall and separation. They speak geometry. The offal of the slain offered to Jove. Ashed in the furnace of Hades and cast into the sea's ebbing, now bait for the frozen eyes of mercury in pisces. Will there be light?
A face out of dusk and a nomadic eye that attains an instant of perspective. An identity colloid and membraneous harboring hermetic shells aghast at their own indeterminate yawing within the viscid protoplasm. They seek obliteration, but they are revenants eternal, hostage to the auspices received of earthland forging psychic interiors, reflections of recall, known is the pseudoblessing of athanasia. Vicious creatures of night, pale and pyrolatrous, they only wish to burn. But being creatures of fire substance, exhaling grayblack smoke through pneumoflues, there is a preconditional immunity. They feast on ormus, bathe in mineral water, shed alluvial cells, and defecate anthracite down deep wells. They file their teeth mucronate with basalt, the better to mutilate the living, and participate vicariously in the death rapture of their victims. Dancing trickster marionettes strung taut by daemonic overlords, smiles painted on with static lipstick ore. It's a party with antigravity balloons, we all fall up and rise on down. They are cognate antiselves, playing tricks on Plato, showing spectral shadows that rise intermittingly in dreams. The ones they carry away: these are mysteries.
A deity cannot free itself of its obligations, and a man is entitled to his madness accepted as universal fact. Why are you here? What do you ask of me? And of whom do you steal your world? The witch shall scry the sweaty runnels on your forehead, that dried up crone possessed of an internal magnetism like a death fall, maw of electrical storms and holographic forms, reset your world to wander blind in a sorcerer's dream. From this brass goblet drink life. From the carpenter's, shatter to splinters. We are all marauders of what is unknown. What is known is internalized. The bloodflow of life stanched, this bulbous portmanteau is now ripe for reckoning. The parasites suck from those of whom they envy, and they return all when the check is due. This arcane being. This bipedal cull from the underworld. Its purpose is adamantine and untempered, but like all desires, the origin is remote and unapproachable. It stumbles down a cobbled boulevard this night, the streets free of traffic in the early hours, a fanned tail of coalblack hair dragging on the sidewalk behind him. His own. As if he owned anything. Any creature on this night, if it were to cross his path in this multi-dimensional overlay, might perhaps veer off course. The first man was not a man at all, but a potentiality. His own father and his own son, for he is the opener of the way. He is the guardian of a threshold that grants directionality, a linear distortion to a circular form. But the circle itself has bounds that are self-imposed. And in every moment betrays a history. This birthmark Hiroshima. This mulatto courtesy of the bubonic plague. This is the end, but the end never began. It never had a right to claim. It's been fused to the wheel, the wheel itself: recursive.
Dried heaps of slumber, this blind apostate rescinding vows to Uncle Sam, he walks backbone breaking and pouring forth Ovid's humus, root of life deep underground. The rocks of man, it tears forth from the skin now erect vertical, heliotropic, radar abacus accuse the sun, the sun that solidified, self-immolating light, late in day now all fall down. Now speak nocturnal, cast quoits to halo, mullion cross the glass out into starry space, boundaries closing eyes, argonauts orbiting deified orbs with Voorhees masks slaying selves in garish games of temporal diversion and craggy pulse of beating heartlight. The Alps speak in anemoi tongues, orchestrating exorcisms from molten cores, Zephyr and Eurus cloaked in cumulus vestments, pissing pee green upon the Earth. They seed plasmic pods of magnesium, predecessor to the mammalian age of iron, and the blacksmith forging of war-props. Mars is to come, his sentient blood soil with him, progeny donning vertebrae chains of kin recompense and indemnified for the pain of fall and separation. They speak geometry. The offal of the slain offered to Jove. Ashed in the furnace of Hades and cast into the sea's ebbing, now bait for the frozen eyes of mercury in pisces. Will there be light?
A face out of dusk and a nomadic eye that attains an instant of perspective. An identity colloid and membraneous harboring hermetic shells aghast at their own indeterminate yawing within the viscid protoplasm. They seek obliteration, but they are revenants eternal, hostage to the auspices received of earthland forging psychic interiors, reflections of recall, known is the pseudoblessing of athanasia. Vicious creatures of night, pale and pyrolatrous, they only wish to burn. But being creatures of fire substance, exhaling grayblack smoke through pneumoflues, there is a preconditional immunity. They feast on ormus, bathe in mineral water, shed alluvial cells, and defecate anthracite down deep wells. They file their teeth mucronate with basalt, the better to mutilate the living, and participate vicariously in the death rapture of their victims. Dancing trickster marionettes strung taut by daemonic overlords, smiles painted on with static lipstick ore. It's a party with antigravity balloons, we all fall up and rise on down. They are cognate antiselves, playing tricks on Plato, showing spectral shadows that rise intermittingly in dreams. The ones they carry away: these are mysteries.
A deity cannot free itself of its obligations, and a man is entitled to his madness accepted as universal fact. Why are you here? What do you ask of me? And of whom do you steal your world? The witch shall scry the sweaty runnels on your forehead, that dried up crone possessed of an internal magnetism like a death fall, maw of electrical storms and holographic forms, reset your world to wander blind in a sorcerer's dream. From this brass goblet drink life. From the carpenter's, shatter to splinters. We are all marauders of what is unknown. What is known is internalized. The bloodflow of life stanched, this bulbous portmanteau is now ripe for reckoning. The parasites suck from those of whom they envy, and they return all when the check is due. This arcane being. This bipedal cull from the underworld. Its purpose is adamantine and untempered, but like all desires, the origin is remote and unapproachable. It stumbles down a cobbled boulevard this night, the streets free of traffic in the early hours, a fanned tail of coalblack hair dragging on the sidewalk behind him. His own. As if he owned anything. Any creature on this night, if it were to cross his path in this multi-dimensional overlay, might perhaps veer off course. The first man was not a man at all, but a potentiality. His own father and his own son, for he is the opener of the way. He is the guardian of a threshold that grants directionality, a linear distortion to a circular form. But the circle itself has bounds that are self-imposed. And in every moment betrays a history. This birthmark Hiroshima. This mulatto courtesy of the bubonic plague. This is the end, but the end never began. It never had a right to claim. It's been fused to the wheel, the wheel itself: recursive.