The Curtain, the Play, and the Opiate

If God be for us, who can be against us?
- Romans 8:31

The voice was thundering against crumbling bricks in the deepest dunes of the desert, fat and slurred like pigs, were tipping a crystal glass to the sound of filthy grinding insects spitting out a thick, black passion for power from the Earth's entrails.

It speaks! does it think as well, of the crypt or the raven
or the decay she stares in the face from day to day!?
Economy!? What now?
The voice of Queen Necropolis!
Let flow your bitter loathing upon the walls of this latest Iron Curtain of ignorance!
How close will she come to destroying it all!?
To launching off her missiles of self deceit and grinding her teeth as she chops off her own hair!?
By the gods how it falls to the floor!
Terribly lost like autumn's terra-cotta leaves swirling in the sunset of what is to come!
RELEASE!

RELEASE your hand from that damned trigger!
We're all hovering on emptiness,
repetition, rhetoric,
and running on nothing but perpetual shadow!
How many times can we play the same play without the epiphany?
This is no time to play Russian roulette with our lives!
It's no spectator sport. Stop damn ye!
Stop cutting off those strands of hope and honour,
and take the bitter bullets from your mouth,
and gently from those hardened eyes.

For as long as I've known you and your sweet lies of
between the trenches,
hidden and puffing with flaming disease
and sickening poison gas carving out the flesh of the lungs,
over a loudspeaker,
in the hearts of the ant piling in infinite rows upon silver rubble
against the heat of the sun,
laser guided meteors,
even between the old gallows!...
And even now, in the desert, bubbling up from the Earth the black cancer of our reminder:

The shadow of politics is still hot and seething from your lips.

Transient

Death in Beauty
Beauty in Death
they dance together in the tapered rose garden,
eyes shifting between syllables of their twilight song
merging for the chaos of a dying sun
and its crimson light.

"If only I could die," says Beauty,
her smooth arms around his shoulders,
quivering,
like her pain streaked eyes lost in the raging whirlwhind.

"Oh darling," says Death,
switching his clumsy feet with the dusty times,
"you'll be there soon."

And no one could explain if there was any purpose
in dancing,
if there was any purpose in moving at all.

Of Life And Death

The vibrations are screaming between the margins of the paper as he writes like a desperate madman; possessed by the margins of life and death. And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head. He must get up and pester the drab of the tide. He must sink and swallow whole the flame of living, though it smells of life where there is truly death, the ashes burning his eyes all the while. Against his brow there is contempt for the aristocratic fool! Who shall know of music if no one knows of that candle against the mahogony desk in its meager flame? It could be killed at any moment! Its life is a testament to will! It must get everything done, must burn out everything it knows!

And Mozart is crying at the notes in his head, and moving his brow to descend with the tide in his heart and the ashes in his soul.

Breathe.

Never, ever let the flame in you subside. Never, ever forget the fuel that drives it, or the wind that contorts its shape like the winding of a cliched road, or the keys of a piano, between the margins of Mozart's own immortality.