Pages

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Letters to a Future Death Row Inmate, Part 1

by Thomas B Whitaker

To my dear friend X,

Hi there. I know that your head is probably spinning at an awful rate right now, and that you are still attempting to assemble all the jagged puzzle pieces of memory together so as to figure out how the devil you managed to end up in that tiny cell of yours, but I just wanted to say hello and welcome you to what will prove to be the hardest years of your soon-to-be-over life. Don’t bother replying – yes, just sit yourself down on the metal bunk; I know its uncomfortable but you wont be getting a mattress for several days, so we shall just have to make do, ok? At any rate, I know that you probably don’t feel like conversation right now. That is ok, though it really doesn’t matter to me, because as you read these words, I am dead, and so I cannot hear your objections. The inability to care about your acceptance of my words is actually one of the best parts about being dead, and is a highly undervalued currency, I shall have you know. Aside from that and a few other minor points, I cant say I much recommend the concept of death, but then again, you don’t have much of a say in the matter, do you? I will just say this: for all his genius, Socrates had it wrong; he should have listened to Crito.

Ah, but none of that, for now. If the same statistics hold in your day as existed in mine, you probably know nothing of Socrates or Crito. It’s not important, at this point. I myself didn’t really know much about those two gentlemen either, before I came to this place. There are quite a few paths you might consider taking through the dark woods of the next 6-8 years, and whilst it must be acknowledged that they nearly all end up in the same hole in the ground, the journey is far more pleasant (and rewarding) on some of them. I highly recommend the ways of education and study, my friend. College classes are very difficult to arrange from where you are, but I found that these hurdles only added to a sense of accomplishment. Learning how to think properly is an increasingly rare phenomenon in these later days, and I encourage you to give it an attempt. Your mind has betrayed you enough up to this point; it’s past time to whip it into shape.

Doing so will help you prepare for “life” inside this modern oubliette. Very few people make it out of here, but there is something to be said for trying to live with some measure of dignity, and it is to this end that I have written this series of letters. As I am a practical man, let us begin with some simple, basic points, ok? Let’s see; ah: for starters, it is going to be two or three months before you will receive your TDCJ ID card, and thus it will also be several months before you are able to purchase items from the commissary. Listen carefully: buy several pairs of socks and boxers on credit from a neighbor. Do NOT wear the socks or boxers that the state offers you. Every conceivable fluid produced by the human body has, at one point or another, been liberally splattered over each and every one of these items. You should know that the bleach needed to properly disinfect these garments is stolen by the laundry room workers for resale on the black market. Buy it when you can. Trust me, my good man: given the choice of going commando for a while or wearing the states clothing, go with the former. Staph infection is rampant back here, and having any boils in close proximity to that portion of your anatomy is a nauseating prospect. (Should you get an infection, however, you need to ask for Bactrim and doxycycline, and quickly.)

More practical points…ok, keep this in mind: these guards are not your amigos. I know that you have probably noticed how friendly most of the inmates are with the lawmen, and you are certainly confused by this. Death Row is the safest building in all of the TDC to work in, though you certainly wont hear that on the news. Many of these officers are decent, semi-normal people just working a job, but many of them will jump at a moment’s notice to testify against you in the event the courts reward you with a retrial. Be cordial, polite even. But always remember that white is not gray, and never will be. When hiring the TDC reaches for the lowest common denominator, and often succeeds in finding it. In any case, about ⅓ of your neighbors are pederasts, so lets just conclude that you probably don’t want to follow their lead on much of anything, ok?

I am not suggesting that you will have to go it alone back here. Far from it. I am simply warning you that you need to pick your friends with caution, both inside 12 Building and in the freeworld. Very soon now you are going to start receiving a lot of mail from people you have never met. Some of this will be from Anti-Death Penalty abolitionists, who mostly mean well, even if they are somewhat ineffective. In fact, it is probably going to alarm you that the two main abolitionist groups in the capital of capital punishment in the West wont talk to each other, due to some microscopic ideological difference. Just remember: for all of that, they are literally the only game in town. Try to understand the historic, cultural, and religious Bastilles that these people are attempting to storm for your sake, and let those feelings of derision go. Scorn may have a place in your emotional armamentarium, but not on this issue.

That said; beware of Death Penalty “groupies” masquerading as activists. Though it may seem inconceivable to you, this subculture exists, and it exists in large numbers. Lewis Lapham hit the nail squarely upon its head when he noted that: “A society that presumes a norm of violence and celebrates aggression, whether in the subway, on the football field, or in the conduct of business cannot help making celebrities of the people who would destroy it.” You will no doubt be as disturbed as I was when you receive your first marriage proposal or multi-page sexually deranged fantasies, which usually involve a lot of leather and no small amount of blood. Just toss these missives out – don’t ever consider responding. It is somewhat more difficult to detect groupies of more subtle means, though they will usually self-identify after a short interim of seeming normality. What you need to concentrate on are not people who massage your ego (or other bodily organs vaguely connected to said ego), but rather supporters who believe in your potential to become a better human being. These people are exceedingly rare, but they do exist, and I can tell you that the presence of just one of these men or women can act as a fulcrum that will move your entire world. I have found that writing to people mostly over the age of 50 significantly decreases the presence of those pen-pals who simply want to engage in a cheap flirtation with the abnormal.

Along with the supporters and groupies come the members of the Fire and Brimstone Brigade. This is my humorous (to me, anyway) name for them – for they truly are laughable. In my more serious moments of contemplation, I more correctly label them as the American Taliban. (After all, “Taliban” simply means “religious students”.) These people are pretty much all of a type: white, middle class, southern state evangelicals who usually profess to be deeply committed to their families. And yet, you will never receive a more disturbing series of letters than you will from these people. (They make the S&M/rape seeking wackos seem tame by comparison.) They will curse you, or ask their god(s) to curse you, but they will never give you their return address. Which is a rather revealing window into their natures though it wouldn’t do any good to engage them in debate, anyway. They are the modern manifestations of Torqemada, of Raymond du Fauga, of Tertullian (“credo quia absurdum est”, indeed) It would be nearly impossible to show them the errors in their logic, for logic and rationality are not major or even contributing components to their belief structures. To see what I mean, HERE and HERE are two samples I received in the same week. As you can see, proper grammar and spelling are not fundamental to the fundamentalists. Neither is even a rudimentary grasp of the field of ethics. (Though, on some weird level, you might appreciate the fact that such letters are often written in colored ink, as colors other than gray, black and white are rare in your life.)

It helps to understand that these people aren’t really angry at you. They latch on to you for the same reason that moderately attractive girls like to have homely friends: it makes them look better by contrast. Mostly, they are fretting about the fact that their entire way of life is crumbling: America is a lot browner than they want it to be; their long cherished myths are no longer declared victorious by fiat, and are slowly being ground to dust under the onslaught of reason; their political leaders are all moral cowards. Remember that people who vociferously declare what they are against, while being unable to articulate what they are for without resorting to the former, are not worthy of conversation. If you are of a more intellectual bent, try to keep in mind that traditionalists always make a fuss as they are swept into the rubbish bin of the past; you will find ample evidence of this in the annals of history.

They remind me of the Pacific Island of Nauru. Do you know it? It achieved some notoriety back in the 90’s for it’s non-existent banking laws, but it is not to this issue that I am referring. The soil on Nauru is almost pure phosphate, and the entire core of the island has been strip-mined clear down to its coral bones. These people, too, have no center, no core. They limp through existence clinging to ideologies that were already bought, sold, reprocessed and recommodified dozens of times before they were even born. Simply put them and their delusion-inspired ethos out of the picture. They can only hurt you if you allow them to. Always keep in mind a maxim that I have found immensely useful in coping with the Fire and Brimstone Brigade: what can be asserted without evidence, can also be dismissed without evidence. Keep this close; it will serve you well.

Oh, come, man, its not all that bad; take your hands off your face. Melodrama doesn’t suit you. In any case, despair is an emotion only displayed by people who think they are going to live forever. I can see that you are growing weary of me, so I will start to wind this down for today. As you sit there, right now, in this very moment, kill yourself in your mind. You have to bury hope. Hope is a nice, pretty thing for people with a real life ahead of them, but for you it is a cancer that will eat you raw. Die. Right now, in your head. Have your last words, your funeral. That way, whatever happens next will simply happen, without the attached emotional torture. After all, what did you expect from life? Greener grass on the other side of the fence? Azure skies and perpetually soft landings? Why did you expect more from Fortune and Fate then the trees in the forest or the birds of the air? Did you think yourself more valuable than the rocks in the stream? The virus that kills without mercy? If you don’t know what the word “solipsism” means, look it up, because you are made up of them.

Maybe in one of my future letters I will help you find a means of divorcing yourself from such madness. Part of me thinks that doing so would rob you of an ecstatic-I-just-fucking-figured-it-out moment, which are one of the greatest pleasures in life. We will see. Maybe one mans epiphany is another mans bargain-basement self-help recipe. Maybe the root of the desire for said recipe - that someone has got the Secret, the answer for how not to get sick, or suffer, or taste death – is the greatest weakness of our half-evolved species. These themes are worth contemplating about, since all you really have is time, anyways.

I will part with a small nudge in the right direction, if you permit me. Consider a story from the Bhagavad – Gita, a Hindu scripture from the 4th Century BCE. Like all such religious texts, be wary of drawing literal conclusions; allegorical lessons will suffice. The episode I have in mind concerns the god Krishna, as he takes human form to act as the charioteer to the warrior Arjuna. Krishna tells Arjuna that the attention we pay to specific outcomes in life (good or bad) should be minimal. Relinquish all connection to outcomes, Krishna teaches: be equally indifferent to success and failure. Instead of assigning value to what happens around you, realize that such things only have value in that they allow you to see anew what is going on inside your “soul.” Replace “soul” with “mind”, and I think you will see what he meant. Wisdom doesn’t come easy, Krishna teaches. It takes time and practice to forge a mind quiet enough to hear life’s deeper truths. It takes discipline.

Keep your head up, friend. Hell can be a place, or a tool. The blessing is: you get to decide which it will be.

Until next time,
TBW


© Copyright 2010 by Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Poetry by Christian Weaver

What I Know

Do you know what I know?  For your soul is too huge
To be stuffed like a crab in this nautilus-tomb –
Even tighter it grows with the more you retreat
From the roaring without
And the deafening shout
Of your Destiny there by the sea.

Do you see what I see? For your Destiny runs
So much faster than sense – than your sanity – does
And your instincts pursue what your intellect shrieks
Is the Eden abhorred
For its fiery sword
And the death of those golden-haired dreams.

Do you want what they want? Yellow grass without rain
Lilliputian their pleasure; Lilliputian their pain.
See them flow like a brook to resistance’s least!
Ever mocking your loss
As a self-holocaust
And despising those ponderous wings.

Will you rise to your height? From before you were born
You were bred for the lightening and led by the storm –
Resurrection’s reserved for the rarest and best…
Few are chosen, its true
But the fewer than few
Through a lifetime of heartache persist.

Will you fight what you fear? No Goliath so tall
That it doesn’t crash harder than Jericho’s walls.
Only madmen and fools do not tremble, aghast
At the blood-curdled screams
Of impossible dreams –
Only heroes are up to the task.

At the last, at the last, be it demon or man
It shall flee from the fear-tempered sword in your hand.
Not the dauntless or frozen inherit the crown
But the one who defeats
Every innermost shriek
With AUDACITY louder than sound.



AGAPE MYSTERION

What is Jesus to me? The aroma of hope…
See how fiercely she weeps as she kisses His feet!
How the house is perfumed with the scent of her love
At Messiah revealed
To the deepest unhealed
Ever conjured from Spirit and dust.

What is Jesus to me? He’s the maestro of souls
The usurper of fate... yellow sun in the gold.
Through His magic alone does the wreckage of sin
Back-assemble to romance of legend and myth –
Only realer than diamonds from coal.

What is Jesus to me? Vivid colors from grey…
The deceased come to life like a dogwood in spring
Where impossible fantasies rise from their graves
Growing young and immortal again.

What is Jesus to me? Omni-power restrained...
See the galaxies spin in the palm of His hand!
Where the gavel and scepter divinely succumbed
To a gardener’s spade
On that mystical day
Just outside the unlikeliest tomb.

What is Jesus to me? Indestructible love.
Never wavers or fades or returns to the dust
Like a fire it burns irresistibly hot
Like a flame it consumes everything that is not
Of a purity finer than gold.

What is Jesus to me? The most giddy with joy
The most shredded with sadness and heartache and grief
At the children who hear, and who follow, His voice
And the wolves who devour His sheep.

What is Jesus to me? Holy laser of light
Ever piercing the darkness with quickness and ease
How His freedom invades every dungeon and cell
Breaking shackles in two
Leading out from the gloom
Who in bondage hath labored and dwelt.

What is Jesus to me?  Both the journey and goal
The salvation of Sisyphus, rest for the soul –
Through His magic alone does the mortal arise
From his mattress of worms to inherit a life
More amazing than diamonds from coal.

What is Jesus to me? Vivid colors from grey…
Where the dead come to life like a dogwood in spring
And impossible fantasies rise from their graves
Growing young and immortal again.


BLACK WINE

Let the shadows descend! For I dwell in the shade
Of the white-headed mountains of power and fame
That my future demands…so impossibly high
That I tremble and gasp
That I shudder and cry!
At the brute, inescapable fact…

Let them whisper and point! For I carry the head
Of Goliaths yet slain by their very own sword
And I clutch the black curls of that Nephilim-goat
And I feel the warm blood down my ankles and toes
Like the richest and rarest Merlot.

Yea, I stroll like the ghost of a hero long dead
Through the halls of his triumphs, all studded with pearl.
And I roam the green fields of the wars that I fought
Just above the bone-soldiers that mutter and rot
With invectives forever unhurled.

Who on earth was as riddled with shyness and fear?
Yet I dragged the pale ego through canyons so sheer
That it died with a shriek...undisturbed and alone
A Colossus of WILL
(As unyielding as stone!)
Fell in love with the courage I’d built.

To that beach-headed warrior, scrawny at nine
Marching tall through Megiddos of breaker and foam:
My how boldly you crashed (noggin-first!) into sand
Undeterred by the endless, green-fisted advance
That sent bigger kids sputtering back.

Not for naught was I laid, linen-bound, in a tomb
Not for naught did I roam the graves naked and scarred
Not for naught did I hang between madness and death
But to rise like a god with a double-edged pen
Dripping wine that is ancient and dark…


Thunderhead


I.
Like shadows cast on cavern walls
The world we see we think is all

There is, or was, or shall become
Till lo, the dread MYSTERIUM

Disturbs a few to pierce the skin
Of gears and atoms, peer within

The soft machine to glimpse the Breath
The dust had once commingled with

To spark a SOUL…beyond the range
Of Sense Perception´s causal chains

Exists a world beyond sublime
Outside of Space, outside of Time.

And lo, thereby, the earth was born
Its verdant face, its molten core –

Compelled to life by LET THERE BE…!
Whereby, a singularity

Exploded light…primeval man
Like sodden clay in master hands

Possessed the earth. Beloved by God
And Christ-begotten, lightening shod

He strode with Eve beneath the eaves
Of purple plants the size of trees

And wrestled bears, and ran for days
Euphorically, without a break

To catch his breath, and wounds were healed
Before the blood had yet congealed.

The terra-lords of Eden ruled
Without a backwards glance…

II
A shame, perhaps, that willed unchained
Arrests themselves and play the slave

To beastly passions, selfish pride:
A mindless brute or brutish mind

Was Yahweh´s choice.  And angels, too
Through sickness, age, and maggot-proof

Can yet be warped by will to sin
As did the lucent cherubim

When, dipped in jewels, one led the host
(With pipes and timbrels in his throat)

In praise of God.  And once, mid-song,
His eye surveyed the mighty throng

And narrowed like a cat´s, and gazed
Upon his own majestic shape.

And, filled with sheer, galactic lust
And envy green as emerald-dust

He craved the throne. Wherefore, by stealth
He drew a third unto himself

And stormed the very gates of God
His beauty fled, his glory gone –

And thus the dragon lost his place
Like sheen of lightening flashed…

III
The monster hurdles, comet-like
Exploding on to Space and Time

Erupting like a super-star
And, in his wake, a cosmic scar…

Enraged, he tumbles through the black
And soundless void of Heaven´s lack.

In searing pain from freezing space,
His bony scales irradiate

With solar death. He shrieks and burns.
The atmosphere of primal earth

Is ruptured clean, and rolling smoke
Enshrouds the heavens like a cloak.

And giants die while chewing food—
Their babies partly hatched.

IV
The Word that fathered Father Time;
Indeed, the womb that loved to life

The causal infant, burped and held –
The archetype of life itself –

Declares that all we see or seem
Returns to dust, a fading dream…

And that which natural minds despise
(“Judeo-Christian myths and lies")

Is more than real. The irony:
That brittle, Lilliputian beings

Are graced by God with sovereign might
To move the angels left or right

Like Heaven´s pawns, and every thought
And every good or evil wrought

Disturbs and moves the cosmic hordes
To win or lose the cosmic war.

And lo, the sons of men are doomed
Or guaranteed to win or lose

By if they chose to will their wills
To He who loved, and loves them still.

But most prefer the ancient snake:
The spiral of his trance.

V
The garden yet remains a myth
The poisoned fruit of innocence;

The naked children, weak and dumb
To crafty serpent´s cloven tongue.

And here the gnostics dig and root
For veins of gold and golden truth

To build them calves of twisted words
(Iconoclasts of sacred verse!);

Where wooden dolls must needs to steal
The agency that made them real

By flouting God, and curse´d tree
Became the Cross on Calvary

That saved us all. But hear the truth
Of primal man´s infinitude

Of health and wisdom, verve and life
The self-renewing lightning strike

Appalled the serpent, made it gasp.
Enough to break a dragon´s back

Were Adam´s arms in rolling bands
Of fibrous muscle, crudely flexed

To bend the trunks of trees in two.
Primeval Grendel saw, and knew…

And crouched in terror, hid by leaves
Of purple plants the size of trees;

And there bethought his mortal heel
The secret heights from which he fell

And later tumbled, head and wing…
With craft, applied successfully

To lift the hearts of Heaven´s third,
Who echoed back: “Why should we serve!”

And lo, his thinking kindled coals
(Perhaps he had a chance.)

VI
His ace of spades, his wherewithal
Was Yahweh´s self-defeating law:

That only beings created free
Can know the deathless ecstasy

Of Perfect Beauty, Truth, and Love
Chromatic pearls of tenderness

That fall like rain…the heavens weep
To know, that almost instantly

They´ll shake their puny fists at God.
The cosmic roaches hiss and vaunt

With fear and loathing, bloated pride,
Primeval fall personified

And multiplied from Adam on…
That El-Shaddai was chained to laws

His creatures scorned, the Devil knew
And through the things God couldn´t do

Corrupted earth with cancerous speed –
Rapacious violence, theft and greed

Became the rule from Babel on.
Mishappen hordes of Nephilim

Consumed the righteous from the earth –
From bones of humans, built them hearths

To roast the flesh of infants whole.
The Maker wept from pole to pole…

And lo, His sorrow drowned the earth
With righteous vehemence.

VII
The old polemic never dies,
The fountainhead of Satan´s lies:

That God commands the sovereign throne
By right of might (and might alone!)

And this, perhaps, the reason too
Why Heaven´s wheels and levers moved

To shift the cosmic balance back
To wickedness and impotence.

Wherefore, the Plenum drained itself
Of omni-power, wit and health…

Infused and filled a woman´s womb
With GOD and MAN divinely fused

To stride the earth in mortal dress,
In dust and sweat and griminess;

To laugh and weep with those He made
And know, experientially

The plight of man. Unstained, he knelt
In pools of blood and human filth.

Unstained by lepers wet with sores
He hugged them firmly, pore to pore,

And bore them up on healing wings…
The Savior wept His world to see

So black with horrors, self-condemned
By poison spores that blew and spread

Across the Garden…Dagon´s flies
Assailed the dead with buzzing pride;

The Serpent´s Jeckyl turned the earth
Into a lab of GOOD INVERSED

Whereby he bred deceit and greed,
Immense, microbic death machines –

Unleashed his dreams of tooth and claw…
A world of war of all on all

Became the rule of life on earth:
To die by glut or die by dearth

Became our fate – and man became
A god in ruins, self-enchained

To fallen angels crouched within
The soft machine, discretely hid

From carnal eyes…behold the man!
Whose face was touched by mortal hands,

Who felt the urge to lust and kill
(As all men do, and must, and will)

But never once conceived a thought
To grant it life but Dei-Love

And cast aside his crown and robe.
Humanified, he bled and groaned

To gross dimensions…flayed and scorned
By those His very hands had formed –

Absorbed the weight of holy wrath
For every act of wickedness

From Adam on…demonic hordes
Of trillions entered every pore

With stinging fury, filled with hate
That even now His soul remained

Immune to sin.  The briefest curse
Or lapse of faith to them would serve

To mar Perfection´s bearded face
And crush the heel that crushed the snake.

And too, the Serpent shrieked and groaned –
His paneled den of slaves and souls

Destroyed and plundered, weirdly mute,
Deserted as the Easter tomb –

And yes, through faith we too arise
With nailprints in our hands.


The Empress

She approaches like fog from the banks of the Siene,
Effervescing her joy…sandaled feet under dress
Make her form seem to float across cobblestone streets
In a dream-woven wondrousness.

I am sure she exists, for such tenure in dreams
Such DURATION reveals that her counterpart trods
´Tween the wrought-iron gates and La Madeline´s place
Where she glows like a daughter of God's.

And behold, she exudes a hypnotic appeal…
Psycho-shackled by more than inordinate lust
Are the men, young and old, who impulsively turn
Into troubadours singing their loves.

And the women, as well, make-up mirrors in hand
Surreptitiously capture her image behind
And behold, even actors and athletes are moved
To impose for a casual “Hi!”

Belladonna she is, Lady Death-and-Rebirth
Washed in hyssop, transfigured, or fashioned anew
Is the soul who delights in the Graille of her cup
And who tastes of its magical brew.

And what Byzantine beauty her spirt and form!
She´s enamored with symmetry, daily enthralled
She reflects to the eye what her spirit beholds
And makes wonder-beholders of all.

Synchronicities guide her with crumbs from Above;
What she loves is confirmed by strange omens and signs:
Favorite perfumes and melodies waft in the breeze
At precisely impossible times.

From the bygone she strolls – Renaissance in a dress –
Past the tourists and hawkers and motleys who stare
At this Beautiful Freak who inhabits their midst
And whose SEPARATENESS charges the air.

Yes indeed- and whose holiness frightens the night…
Now do lewdness and merriment part with disgust
Now do addicts rejoice in their spiritual wealth:
Broken bottles and cigarette butts…

There she found me in chains, in a pincushion trance
Convocation of driftwood and heartache and smoke…
But she brought me to life with the milk of her love
And the honey of infinite hope.

Now have oceans uncrossed…and no longer in dreams
But on statues and paintings and time-burnished coins
Does she peer through the bust of some Empress of old –

Ever Christian her fullness of joy.


Heaven´s Abyss

Oh what vast, subterranean powers arise
From the foundaries of hell
To the wandering skies…
Ever rolling and seething in anguish of smoke
Is the black heart of man –
But to never lose hope
Turns the soul into something divine.

We who crafted a Rome out of lofty ideals
Watched it burn to the ground in the face of the real
We who fiddled our ashes and martyred our Christs
Never veered from the FALSE to the left or the right
We who ravished our virgins and slaughtered our slaves
Dried His feet with such passion they sweated and chafed
We who hurdled headfirst into heaven´s abyss
(Trailing smoke in our wake, wearing Judas´ kiss)
Left a scar on the face of the earth…


Laughing Lion

Cosmi-comic consciousness:
The greatest grief´s a laugh
To know that life is but a test
That only heroes pass
(That only those who roll the stone
With JOY do not go mad)


Psalm 118

Explain, if you will, what you can´t comprehend
With the eyes of the mind
Blood should ve blind
(Never willed to be blood)
But I felt as the stitches were pulled from my lids
All the people like trees, and the light rushing in
Made me naked and fearless as Christ

Christ, who had willed me to walk on the waves
Take a nap in the storm, reemerge from the grave
Was the one who compelled me to dance like a cork
On the bones of despair, hurling praise to the Lord –
Though my song was the crackle of flames.


Aerial

Saw a ghost of a chance
In a gossamer gown
She was plaintively weeping
With barely a sound
She was runaway angel
All bloody and torn
Just another lost soul in the Quarter…


Revenge

Her beauty was dark as the poems that she scrawled
And her eyes were as burning and black
As a double eclipse of the moon and the sun
Lady Death! There was no turning back…

Little Doña María – they married you young
To a powerful friend of your Dad´s
And you silently wept as his gold-fingered paws
So audaciously stole a caress.

Oh my, what a man! Full of vengeance and lust
Who would murder the sun if betrayed
And he trusted that I – who had rescued him once –
Could be trusted while he was away…

To attend to his wife on her loneliest dawns
Take a walk on the golden haired beach
Or perhaps, hand in hand, make some fresh lemonade
Till our souls, like a tapestry, weaved.

And we knew we were doomed, but the beauty thereof
And assurance that love conquers law
And then too, I confess, steamy cult of the flesh
In my bungalow deep in the woods

"Do you love me?" She cooed.  "What is love?" I replied
And she angrily rolled out of bed
And naked she shrieked as the door busted in
To some swarthy and dangerous man.

“Seize the whore!” thundered one. “Make the libertine watch.
And he opened her cheek with a knife
Then they kicked me to sleep, left the cabin in flames
Dragged her off in the sinister night.

I awoke nearly dead, full of fractures and burns
Crusted blood on my face and my hands
In the home of a Mexican father and son
Who with tenderness nursed me to health.

Bless them both! And I did – with a great wad of cash
Then I called upon some veteran friends:
Crazy Joe, Gunner Dee, fresh n' smokin´ from ´Nam
And we drew up a plan for revenge…

First we tracked down his thugs, one by one, in the bars
And we hacked off their fingers and toes
One by one, till they talked…and it didn´t take long
Till we learned what we needed to know.

Then a brothel of slaves, taken women and girls
Who we riddled with sickness and drugs
“Where´s María?” I asked.  And I flashed enough bills
To unloose every lip in the slum.

Then I seized the madam by her diamonded throat
Shoved a fistful of bills in her mouth
Shot the panders and thugs, and, to top it all off
Ripped her customers´ testicles off.

And behold, in the very last room that I found
On a sickbed of trauma and grief
With a Frankenstein scar and a well-traveled track
Of fresh tears on her beautiful cheek…

Was the girl whom I loved, barely conscious and pale
As a yellow and worm-eaten shroud
Or a veil for a ghost…how her eyes came to life
When they saw who her visitor was!

“Let the death saint arrive!” And she bitterly wept
As I scooped her up whole in my arms
And she buried her face in my neck and my chest
So as not to acknowledge the scar

But I held her in place, and I kissed it full length
And she groaned while she faded to sleep
“Let it go”, she implored, “Lay your vengeance to rest.
It´s the devil himself that you seek.”

I was taken aback by her dying request
For my love was no match for my hate
And I whisked her away in my trembling arms
While my friends set the prisoners free.

While they busied themselves with the girls getting home
I immersed the bordello in gas
And I roared to the sky as the flames came to life:
“To the death! To the death! TO THE DEATH!!”

I pursued him alone in the mountains he loved
Whereupon, many winters ago
We had hunted and drank and consumed wild boar
By the firelight´s demon-red glow.

Icy breeze through my hair, loaded gun at my hip
Moving specks in the distance revealed
On the yellow-clad grass pair of hunters – alone
So I crept through the woods for the kill…

Then I looked through my sights – and behold, only him
In a jacket of leather and fur
Took his glasses off slow, and his cobra eyes glowed
With an ancient and crafty allure.

Then his demon-lips curled in a sinister grin
And a thunderclap rang in the sky
I collapsed in the dirt feeling dizzy and cold
Lady Death! I´d been shot from behind.

And my thoughts drifted back to the woman I loved –
All our walks on the golden haired beach
Were replaced by his bulk, looming massive above:
“It´s the devil himself that you seek.”


Ariel or the Sea Song

Let the sea-billows roar to the strength of my joy
Let them sparkle and wink; for their whitecaps of foam
Art enamored and brushed by the wingtips of gulls
And the seafarer dreameth of home.

Thou hast lifted my soul from the vortex of death
Though the waves of despair ever swirleth, and pull
With unmerciful force at the wreckage of life –
Hear the curses of madmen and fools!

Thou hast showed me the end of my folly, and lo
Everyday doth the skeleton rattle and dance
All the skulls of my yesteryears, polished and white
Daily grinneth at me from the glass.

Thou hast graced me with powers of death and rebirth
On the corpses of SELF do I step and ascend
And the joy I have found of each birth is increased
By the pain of each precedent death.

Thou hast given me one who is like unto me
Burning Afric she is, of a tropical clime
We are distant and damned as young Phlebas from land:
“What is lonelier, angel, than I?”

She has licked me with lightening. Her cinnamon skin
Hath an odor of oil and lotion and musk
And her hair – o her hair! – is a forest of black
Where I wander from dawn until dusk…

Let the sea-billows roar to the strength of my joy
Let them sparkle and wink; for their whitecaps of foam
Art enamored and brushed by the wingtips of gulls

And the seafarer dreameth of home.


Battle Cry of the Doomed

I have had quite enough of your wisdom and wit
All your gold plated accolades, shiny and thin
And your virtues – as spotless as Pharisees´ Tombs
Insufficient for evil or good.

I have lost my respect for the mellowed and tamed
Though there´s some of you heroes, and martyrs and saints
Though there´s some of you rich and respected as Job
You have yet to collapse; you have yet to explode.

I can only revere who has suffered THE MOST
Whose machine is an engine that tortures the ghost
Who has crawled through a sewer of fish-belly dreams
And emerged with a permanent shriek.

From the bowels of torment is ecstasy born
To ascend high enough for the lightening and storm
To assault who has fearlessly challenged their height
“Have you sunk low enough? Have you riddle and rite?”

All my love for the one who is fated to die
Who was born in a graveyard of body or mind
Who´s aware that he´s doomed – nonetheless, with a laugh
Draws his sword from his sheath and ATTACKS.



Fireworks

Alas! The dam has sprung a leak
The mighty tower groans and sways
The bridge that many millions crossed
On trusting feet – its cables creak
And thousands plummet to their graves.

The raging rivers dry and crack
The scarpèd cliff is smooth and worn
The grand sequoia’s felled at last
By clever, small, insistent hands
And all that´s great is greatly scorned.

The fairest maiden sags and folds
The flowers wilt; the cricket fades
The hoary Brahman muses, stumped
The child grows and moves away.

The chastest flower yields in time
To long, tenacious tongues of lust
The hardest hearts most loudly split;
(Their chasms cleave; their secrets fly)
And all that´s left is bones and dust.

The finest preacher balls his fist
And roars: “God damn you − damn it all!”
The coin rescinds its owner´s wish
It scorns the well it´s falling in,
And all that rises, lo, must fall.

The law of change is grow or die
And both to men are firm decreed:
To rise and burst in motely bits
Of self-extinction, bright and brief!



The Ballad of John Henry, Stagolee and John Brown

I am nine pounds poundin’ through rock like a gun
An’ my fate weighs a ton
An’ my fate weighs a ton
I am nine pounds poundin’ through rock like a gun
An’ my fate weighs a miserable ton.

Got me workin’ to death under angry white sun
For a shack n’ a crumb
For a shack n’ a crumb
Got me workin’ to death under angry white sun
For a shack n’ a measly crumb.

I am .32 – 20 an’ killin’ for fun
An’ my hate weighs a ton
An’ my hate weighs a ton
I am .32 – 20 an killing for fun.
An’ my hate weighs a terrible ton.

I am cleansing this land of the evil it’s done
An’ some blood’s gonna run
An’ some blood’s gonna run
I am cleansing this land of the evil it’s done
An’ some blood’s gonna bubble n’ run.

©Christian Weaver 2013

......


I Fought The Greys

The doors are locked, the windows barred
And hope, it seems, hath flown away
And all I love is dead or gone –
But here I stand: alone, unscarred.

The mountains bow, the valleys sigh
The rivers wring their flaccid hands
And leaf subsides to falling leaf
A symphony to Death. But I

As changeless as a Grecian urn
(Whom life adorns – but doesn’t pierce!)
Detach myself from motley scenes
Of love and hate, immortal grief.

Beneath this shattered visage lies
The juggernaut – Parnasus-like!
As mountaintops that pierce the clouds
And scrape the silver lining off.

Behind the mask, behind the veil
Behind where even palsies stir
The Great Despiser takes its throne
And seats its arse on human woe.

Unmoved – it watches angels sigh
From lofty nichés, silver dress’d
And humans as they groan and sweat
Unmoved – it watches babies die.

And laughs because it mustn’t weep
And sneers because it mustn’t groan
No human left, ‘cause human heart
Would long ago have turned to stone.

And all that fastens life and death
Dramatic filler, pompousness
Coerces it to laugh so loud
That even gods – immortal, proud

Divest themselves of lofty airs
And look, perchance, a little scared
To feel those marble pillars shake –
Confront a will as vast as space!

For nothing moves the inward eye
Through madness swirleth ever round
A peace inside the hub, I’ve found
To counterbalance, nullify

The ghoul that feeds on listless hearts
And narrow souls. It only seeks
To link the living corpse thereto
And fill the flesh with gangrene.

And once, I’m sure, it shed a tear
For things no mortal eye should see:
Enormous Agent Orange eyes
Or none at all, on little kids.

A Carnival of horrors: LIFE
A masquerade of grinning skulls
And shackled limbs, in chains of fear
And ignorance. Inside the mold

It turns to hate. And hate becomes
A demagogue, a Golem-Brain
That drinks the blood of tawny youth
And breathes the fumes of slaughtered dreams.

And God, as well – it steals Him too
And stamps His seal on every crime.
The basest fiend could e’er devise
To seal an honest person’s doom.

A demon lurks behind the eye
That, opened once, forevermore
Permits the march of cloven feet
Through human maze. A Minotaur

Abrades and stomps as fine as dust
The human conscience, once so fair
As instantly to register
Like silk, the faintest puff of air

The blew from wet and pallid lungs
A fetid marsh, where evil slime
The fresh perversions brought to life
And grew them pretty, grew them young.

The Grey Controllers stir the pot
And brew the hate. Their stainless arms
As nimble as a violin
Obey the distant Brain-in-jar.

A drop of this, a pinch of that
Voila! Homunculus is done
Like ignorance and loyalty
Commingled, thus, must soon become

A patriotic battle toy
No blood but’s spilt to serve the tribe
With killer TV screens for heads
Thereon: their leader’s face inscribed.

A sprig o’lonely, dash o’fear
And quart or two of herdish bent
Voila! The –ISM draweth near
With sacred writ, and pamphleteer.

The Grey Controllers’ closed retort:
Wherein the elements collide
In bloody wars. They froth and foam
But none can see the other side.

Like kids, they battle different ants
And watch one tear from limb to limb
His fellow ant. The factions’ wars
Amuse like hell the bigger kids.

But here I stand – and cockily
My beaker shattered with contempt
As if to say, “My will’s exempt
From all of yours COLLECTIVELY

And lo, their cameras twitch with hate
Their stainless arms, with spots of rust
Contort and jerk and fulminate
But here I stand: inviolate.

As changeless as a Grecian urn
Whom life adorns (but doesn’t pierce!)
I fought and fight them every day:
The Grey Controllers know my name.

©Christian Weaver 2013
......

Arc d’X

O, to be rolled in the ash of your thighs!
To be drowned in the depths of your black-lacquered womb
How ecstatic I plunge into madness and death
For your African thighs as they shudder and sweat
In the furious vapor of noon.

O, to be black as the loam of the earth!
I contort like a worm in your moisture and musk
Let me immolate SELF in the flame of your thighs
Lick your toes to the blade of a succubus-knife
And be dead as rock before dusk.

O, how I ravished that barefooted slave!
And the stains on her dress never faded a bit
Then I slept and awoke to Beloved, my bride
And together we buried that monster alive
In a sodden and ebony pit.

Demons of passion, unkillable lust
Incarnations of hero and villain for you
What in common they have, and have had, through the years
(Through the centuries, love!) is an absence of fear
I would burn every martyr for you.

O, to dissolve like a smoldering wick
In the smoke of your hair –black as resin and coal!
Let my yearning extinguish the rope of your neck
Let me dive in a furnace of vulva and breast
Till the heat melts together our souls…

O, to be rolled in the ash of your thighs!
To be drowned in the depths of your black-lacquered womb
How ecstatic I plunge into madness and death
For your African thighs as they shudder and sweat
In the furious vapor of noon.

©Christian Weaver 2013
......

My Province

I have slit the earth’s throat and imbibed on her blood
I have taken all pain as my province. I burn
With the madness of passion, the fury of lust
I have taken all pain as my province, and thus
I alone for felicity yearn.

I have writhed in the grip of Locusta’s embrace
Brought the lightning to life. Of Gargantuan vice
Was the monster that woke to Divinity’s face
And embarked on an orgy of pain…

I have festered with Gauguin, syphilitic and blind
To the kingdom within – more of madness and sin
But with horror I found that that garment of flame
By some torturous alchemy sharpened the brain
Till I found myself writhing therein.

Interlaced and enamored – thy torment and joy
To erupt into madness through ecstasy, pain
Is it mad to pursue what the species avoids?
Only souls in the furnace cannot be destroyed
And alone make a beautiful flame.

©Christian Weaver 2013
......

Unpaid

Let the banjo I love play a desolate song
Let the fingers that pick be inspired of God
Let my heart be an empty and sun-whitened plain
Let the sound of her voice be the sound of the rain.

To a happier time…just a memory now
Where the bluegrasses sway to the low of a cow
And the sky is as blue as a quarry in June
Little rosewater blond by the light of the moon…

‘Lil apple-cheeked thing you were slim as a book
‘Lil barefooted boy by the Cumberland Brook
Where the knife in the tree drew a quiver of sap
From the heart that we made. There was no turning back

From the passage of time and the passage of fate
Or a seraphim’s tear on a southern bound train
You were banjo and pick in a travelin’ dress
I was whiskey and pills and the intrigues of death.

But I’ll ask you, my love: was it any less real
For the roll of a die and the turn of a wheel?
Would you cast even NOW to the dust of neglect
For the fact that it came and the fact that it went?

Though I’ve whispered your name every night in the dark
And the smell of your hair I have never forgot
And my bones are inclined to the music you make
Never once have you bothered…to visit my grave.

©Christian Weaver 2013
.....

Supermanic Soul

Let us quicken and roar like a missile in flight
We’re combustion and flame — no remorse for the rain
We collide with the fury of Chaos and Night
Till the sky is ablaze with our names.

Let us float like a cloud on the loftiest height
Hurl our wisdom like lightning to valleys and plains
Let us stride among mountains of passion and might –
Mark the cattle that slumber and graze!

Let us strangle our spirits and lay them on ice
Till the atoms have cooled to a motionless state
Let us run, let us run, the momentum of light
And transform into heavenly rays.

Let us pillage the Sphinx of its riddle and right
Some were born to return; some are hands for the clay
Some are vectors and wombs for the monster inside –
And the vengeance it brings from the grave.

Let us chase the abyss into laughter and light
It has hid for too long…how misshapen its face!
Only fear gives it power to curse and affright
Only INSOLENCE melts it away.

No debaucher we are; no inflamer of vice
But we loathe (with the sharpest and sterilest hate)
All the leeches and thugs who contaminate life
Let us swallow them whole in the flames!

It’s our gift to the FUTURE that welcomes the knife
Let us battle the brute – war of power and place!
It’s the privilege of gods to perpetually strive
Against relics of infant and ape.

So you’re hated and harried and riven by strife?
Lighten up! For it’s laughter that loosens and slays
Let the lightning assault what has challenged its height
It’s an honor, my friend, not a shame.

©Christian Weaver 201
....

Tragic Eagle

An eagle with wrens soon believes he’s a wren
And his comrades are blind to his eaglish wit
Though he pries from the jaws of great oysters more pearls
Than could even be trampled by pigs.

©Christian Weaver 2013
.....


Love

It moves the mind and bends the will
And crushes logic underfoot
It says, “I live and die for her
I draw the sword; I also kill.”

©Christian Weaver 2013

.....

Unbroken

Feel the pulse within thee pounding
Echoes far and wide resounding
Waves that ever break ashore…
Rolling green with jealous fury
Oceans travelled in a hurry
Just so we can hear them roar!

Shun the ones who leave their chancing
Cry their laughing, weep their dancing
Paint them red with healthy blood!
Those with hooded heads of weeping
Crosses black and maggots creeping
Must we wallow in their mud?

Fear and hatred lurk primeval
Serpent’s tongue and fruit of evil
Know thyself and shun the rest!
What is bad but good inverted?
He who know is most perverted
He who thinks he knows what’s best.

Follow that which rings the truest
Ring the bell thyself, and doest
Deeds which boldly echo back
Climb the ladder – time’s elapsing!
Rungs beneath thy feet collapsing
Thou! My Dionysiac!

Let thy spirit burn as brightly
Stars as far as night is nightly
Nonetheless – forever seen!
Ever hurling spears of passion
Through the heart stupefaction
Draining faith of morphine!

Suffer thou, when feeling mimsy
Terra-bound and far from whimsy
Moonlight strolls on lighted paths…
Future soon the present’s pastly
Hurry-scurry, grim and ghastly
Why not flip the hourglass?

What but spirit musn’t shatter?
Broken by the wheel of matter
What but spirit turns it’s nose?
Deems the body’s dissolution
Good – the ultimate solution
To a spirit’s puny growth!

Let thy motto be UNBROKEN
Nothing hid and nothing spoken
What have mountaintops to prove?
Always tried but never trying
Scattered bones of climbers, drying
On the rocks of their reproof!

Let thy spirit freeze the fire
Scorch the ice and spend desire
Thou the great Surpassing One!
One command is yours: be truer
Than the rats who roam the sewer
Feasting on the death of God.

©Christian Weaver 2013
.....

Unbroken II

Spirit unbroken, huge, unscarred
Spirit as distant burning star

Spirit outside of pride and shame
Above contempt, above acclaim

Spirit as high as high can be
Above the earth – yet ever seen.

Terrible spirit, be thou me!

©Christian Weaver 2013

.....

Hungry Ghosts

Behold! The world is Helen’s Troy
The topless towers burn with greed
The clouds themselves are tinted green
And dead, I fear, what’s not destroyed.

Voracious maws of speckled red
Consumed the harvest… all that’s left
Are apex-eaters, filled with dread
‘Cause all their prey is gone.

With perfume squeezed from rotting dreams
A thousand slaves per amber drop
When mixed with tears and orphans’ screams
It smells so good to be on top.

The missiles gleam. Just one could wrap
A milllion puckered ribs in fat
Bugattis gleam. The children starve
Since greed itself became an art.

The ghosts of children never born
Will curse the world we left behind
A toxic waste - - desertified - -
A raging drought or raging storm.

And all for gildded luxuries
The hors d’oeuvres and SUV’s
Were never quite the same as needs - -
The rarest and the best …

Were culled from lands a world away
The Afric diamond, poisoned gold
Adorned the skin and framed the face
Of pasty bankers. OVERSOLD

AND UNDERFED was proudly stamped
On all that grifted through their hands
From land to land and host to host:
“We came, we saw, we made the most.”

What loutish brute would sleep in waste
Its bowels made - - what mindless ass?
What dolt would fill with toxic gas
The very air it breathes and tastes?

The CORPORATE brute! Whose blood is green
McLoyalbranddemocracy
To purchase this or that you’re free
(We’ll march you to the polls)

Where future needs are drained to fill
Anaemic wants of here and now
Some lust for death that greed fulfills
Unconsciously. Behold the plow

Of recompense - - how razor-sharp!
The hungry ghosts of vengeance are
With hate they roam throughout the earth
Unleashing war, creating dearth…

Pinochet swims in palace blood
Somoza, Marcos, Franco’s Spain

The grizzled thugs were armed and trained
By corporate interests, hawks and doves.

The problem with democracy
Is that it fails to guarantee
The US client’s victory - -
Goddam the voting poor!

Destroy the unions, root and branch
Cut off the breasts of women. Bomb
The softest targets with aplomb
Of human rights and pure intent.

When war’s for profit human life
Is cheap as crosses painted white
When war’s for profit Halli-FIEND
Is shittin’ gold and pissin’ green.

Ole Helliburton’s Blood to Cash
Was slick as crude… but twenty bil?
“Oh that! We had to - - rebuild.”
Fallujah lies in smoking ash.

The choice is simple, you decide
Obey the boss and toe the line
The counter choice is NATOCIDE:
A hundred-thousand dead.

The man devoid of tanks and planes
Will hurl his stones at palace walls
He kills a few… with shock and awe
Entire cities burst into flames.

Iraqi schools go up in smoke
The tiny corpses scream and choke
Untreated sewage floods the streets
With death by water - - sheer disease!

A hundred browns to every white
But no one counts the foreign dead
Unpeople, all from worst to best.
The God-forsaken Canaanites

Were born to die - - destroy them all!
The Lord Himself will smite their jaw
The US-Israel lobby calls - -
Support it or be damned.

The ghosts of slaughtered children roam
The blackened husks of empty streets
And all is grey that once was green
The former glory of their home.

The glory’s gone and shan’t return
The hungry ghosts of vengeance learn
How much they could have spent and saved
Department stores conceal their graves...

Behold, the world is Helen’s Troy
The towers reek of burning flesh
The clouds themselves are tinted red
And dead, I fear, what’s not destroyed.

©Christian Weaver 2013
....


Growing Pains

The spirit strives against the hand
That chisels it immaculate
And every time the hammer swings
It gives a mighty shriek.

©Christian Weaver 2013
....

Ambience

Acoustic nostalgia caresses my brain
With fingers of youth. Distant ripples in time
By the stone of a yesterling carelessly tossed
Imperceptibly grow more sublime...

©Christian Weaver 2013
....

Lebenswelt

I.

Rejected from birth, black as resin and coal
An abortion of will couldn’t murder the flesh
Nor the cigarette butts that she ground in his soul
Like Osiris reborn from the watery dead.

Give me skullful of dirt if it’s grisly and true
Plant some flowers therein – life has triumphed at last!
As above, so below... who can shackle can loose
On the corpses of SELF do we step and ascend.

Empty houses can speak. There’s a porcelain ghost
There’s a time-eaten tractor that ferried the dead
‘Cross the Cumberland Brook... “said I loved her THE MOST
And I’ll haunt every other to madness and death.”

See how rusty and small! How corroded with time!
What was yesterday vast as mechanical hands
Growing up from the ground. But the playground has died
(Though the ghostly translucents petition and beg

For their shells to return). Will adults ever learn?
Even dreams decompose if you don’t keep them fresh
And the purpose of love is to burn and be burned
Till your scar-hardened hearts are immune to distress.

Not to slay but to CHANGE -- give thy wickedness wings!
Watch your dragons transform into songbirds and pets
It’s the flame that creates -- though it murders and stings
Resurrection’s reserved for the rarest and best.

There’s a statue that weeps through the cracks in her eyes
She is striated black... stony fingers outstretched
Where the abscesses drain and the memories dry
Those who touch her are loosed from addiction and death.

Ancient rivers of hope ... all diseases can heal
But not all can be cured by their potions and tests
Some have worm-eaten souls; some are under the wheel
Some are mended and sewed by invisible threads.

You must die many deaths. As you break the cocoon
There are black-mantled demons that fill you with dread
Under infrared skies do they mutter and swoop
From impossible heights ...”Exit evil ahead!”

All is frightful and strange when the world that you knew
Is perceived through new eyes – even family and friends
Hurl their mene and tekel. Pallid fingers of doom
Scratch your rabid, syphilitic, and hate-curdled end.

Lebenswelt, Lebenswelt, Dionysus in chains
Pole to pole have I lived, and from origin to end
Is the length of my days. An unthreadable maze
Couldn’t lose who I am or reveal where I’ve been.

Greatness takes what it will. Even paragons stroll
Through the harems of power, enjoying the best
They are HUMAN, I fear, and have gold-plated souls
Who is wizened and wise will expect nothing less.

In the Garden they roam, ever ripe for a Fall
Where the secrets are swollen and bleeding and red
Where the flowers are raped by gargantuan moths
And the serpents are nooses in search of a neck.

Here the anomie reigns. Super-fragmented souls
Are as lonely as shadows to love and connect
To another lost soul: “When together we’re whole
And not even the sword of privation and death

Can dissever our love.” There’s a highway of blood
An American scream that will curdle your flesh
All that glitters is gold – but it’s never enough
To repurchase the years or defray the neglect.

Where the demon-eye flashes its psychopath strobe
And the spiral-eye’s power and money and sex
Made us killers for real. On the wide open road
We would burn out their pupils with lit cigarettes...

Nonetheless, there is hope. Via crusis, I heard
And the sewer grate clogged with the blood of the blessed
And it choked and it sobbed, so disfigured they were
Swathed in leprous rags, maladorous and wet.

Nonetheless, there is hope. Every angel I meet
Through a terraling’s manner, and language, and dress
Reenacts the celestial order of things
And reveals that the Lord, through the commonest threads

Moves the levers of heaven ... what woman is this?
Fell in love with a corpse and with bitterness wept
For its soul to return. Left the stain of a kiss
And the redness, like ripples, enamored and spread

To the torso and limbs. The lividity died
Purple veins in relief against colorless flesh
Inexplicably quivered with lightning and life
From the tomb he emerged. “De profundis,” he said.

See the darkness collapse like an in-folded rose
Like a crab to its shell it retreated and fled
From an atom of light... Under death-valleys grow
Purple gardens of happiness, spicy and wet.

Where the flowers are lucent as diamonds – and sing
To the echoes of seraphim, holy and blessed
Where the crone once again is presented a ring
And the patriach nods on Eternity’s breast.

©Christian Weaver 2013
....

Lady Death

Lady Death! Lady Death! There’s a ghost of a girl
Who’s as lonely and burning as me
Yeah she was young but her heart was a gun
And I said, “Baby, aim at me.”

Yeah she was young but her heart was a gun
And my passion was raw gasoline
And the fire we made blew us both clean away
Till our ashes dispersed on the sea...

©Christian Weaver 2013
....

Gnosis

O Love! Nostalgia! A blue-veinèd ocean!
A slumbering dream from the graveyard of youth
Has been vexed unto life by a stormy commotion
It pitches – it rolls! – a rhythmical motion
Of truth!

The line of a ship seems to pierce the horizon
A ghost-ship that sails on the mists of the past
And the gulls are as black as a sackcloth of hair
For the gray in the sky and the bones on the mast.

I shudder ... I writhe! For the bird on my collar
A curse that I wear for the hope I denied
And my faith in the ruins... a sorcerer-scholar
My eyes when I gaze on the eyes on my collar
Go blind!

‘Tis better to think that a figure or symbol
Is literally true every time it is made
Than to boldly dissect even Calvary’s Cross
(It’s a serpent of bronze! It’s a mystical shade!)

©Christian Weaver 2013
....

Angel Flesh

Hearken children! Gather round
Enjoy the sweet, synthetic sounds:
Prosthetic limbs that moan and creek
Like lovers locked in Death’s embrace - -
A thousand forms without a face –
But still no sign of Mercy Street.

Emaciate my haggard form
Till even the bones become well-worn
And Anorexia admires me
Sweet Jesus on the skeleton tree.

Shaky hands and powdered stones
Bleached cow skull and pile of bones
Reminds me of something –
Reminds me of me...
Ageless principalities!
Celestial cities carved from ice
Where human kaleidoscopes entice
The immortal beings to sacrifice
A little divinity, and love
And some angel flesh and angel blood
From wounding words to crushing stones
Angel flesh – wrap around these bones
Slipping surrealistically...
Diabolic spirits cover me.

The more I eat, the thinner I grow
The more I study, the less I know
The more I destroy, the more I see
A demon incarnate – known as me!

©Christian Weaver 2013


Woman Singer

What is her voice but a magical flute?
Or the serpent who speaks
To seduce very Eve
To devour the mystical fruit?

Dead goddess a-moans from the distantest sands
‘Cross the emerald waves
Like a vampire mist
Through the moss-eaten graves
In the window she drifts
To devour the loneliest man…

©Christian Weaver 2014


The Warrior

Let them bury me whole in their concrete and steel
Bones are bolted and chained
(Even dead I’m restrained)
Scarlet stigma aglow from a smouldering grave
Let the smoke of my torment ascend…

Let it rise
Let it rise
Plumes are rolling and black
I defile the sky
With the guilt that I lack
Not to win or to lose
Only “Did you attack?”
Thus the VICTORY ripen and fall.

An unbridgeable gulf, an unthreadable maze
An unwinnable battle to ransom the past
An unbeatable nemesis crowns every stage
“Not a curse but a challenge,” it laughs.

©Christian Weaver 2014



The Vampire

After piercing the vein - - but before you inject
You extract just a bit of your virtue and life
Several cc’s of blood (sometimes blacker than night)
Like Nosferatu enter the chamber’s confines
Until you and the drug become one.

©Christian Weaver 2014


Synapse

The mind is a gate between spirit and flesh
Where the axons of God, ‘cross that mystical cleft
Whisper chemical secrets profounder than death.

Where the dendrites of man (so like tangles of light)
With electrical urgency sizzle and writhe
With a vast - - can it be? - - RECOGNITION sometimes.

©Christian Weaver 2014


Isabella Donna

Launched to the heights of such ecstasies soar
My emotions unchained
I’m combustion and flame
Like a rocket propelled through the vacuum of space
Trailing doldrums and vapors behind...

Desperate to feast on your trembling heart
Feel the ventricles swell
Saporific and tart
‘Neath the fangs of my loneliness, bloody and sharp
Belladonna refreshes like wine.

Die for your love but I’ll leave you as fast
Now an archetype’s born
From the stress and the storm
And forever I’ll drape you in black when I mourn
At your shrine, babydoll, at your shrine.

Rolled to depths of such solitude – drowned
By the whale that I chased
Zombie – lidded and bound
To inscrutable malice ... with horror I found
That your love was no less than divine.

What to do? What to do? I must crawl to the start
I must swallow my fate
Make my bed in the flames
To atone for such wickedness – curs'd as Cain
Be the fool who would venture to try.

Clickety clack... hear the skeletons dance
Purple-misted and charmed
By the spell of our past
Frozen memories cling to the windows, aghast
At the reprobate huddled inside.

Letters and photographs, relics of US
In a circle arranged
Deimmortal the pain
The centrifugal soul has no route of escape
So it pierces the veins of the night.

©Christian Weaver 2014



Dead Lovers

Time dozes off when you’re caught in a dream
Skeletons dance and realities seem
As euphoric as opium, fragrant and deep
And times unendurably ghastly and bleak.

Hands of dead lovers reach out to caress
By the light of the moon your oblivious breast
For the hands of dead lovers, like autumnal leaves
Only wish to caress a still-animate cheek.

Flies of dead memories chatter and swarm
Round the corpse of our marriage, still bleeding and warm
Comes the funeral pall with the rush of a storm
And beholding it all the Unkillable Worm.

Needles of promises poke out the eyes;
Cross the hearts of the blasphemous, hoping to die
For the needles of promises, gleaming and sharp
Seek the bloodless and fickle and pincushion heart.

Letters and photographs, brown with neglect
Mini-rivers of grief through the dust of regret
Turn to rivers of blood, River Lethe to forget
Purple gardens of happiness, spicy and wet.

Tresses of innocence, shiny and black
Like a waterfall plunged down your sinuous back
Now are patchy and gray and affixed to a skull...
Sails a ghost-ship with bones in its watery hull.

Made a pact with the ocean and swore to the sky
That to live was to love and to leave was to die
But the ocean was full of dead lovers. It sighed
That such immature love could still pass as divine.

‘Twas the sea and the sky that had loved from afar
Each the other one’s blue ... the impossible dream
Whipped her waves to a frenzy of furious green - -
Brought the lust of his lightning to life.

©Christian Weaver 2014


Nexxus

The mind is a gate between spirit and flesh
Where the axons of God, ’cross that mystical cleft
Whisper chemical secrets profounder than death.

Where the dendrites of man (so like tangles of light)
With electrical urgency sizzle and writhe
With a vast - - can it be - - RECOGNITION sometimes.

©Christian Weaver 2014


Flesh and Blood

I awoke from a decade of concrete, steel, and bullet proof glass. It grew smaller in the distance like my childhood home... then my psyche burst open (seemingly of its own volition) and I heard it speak thus:

I am sick unto DEATH of these letters and symbols and poetry and art, cursèd gnosis abstractus –

LET ME TILL THE BLACK EARTH!
I am sick unto death of these –isms I cherished and these –ologies I fondled in the backseat of cars –

LET ME RIDE THE NIGHT SKY!
I am sick unto death of getting lost in this wilderness and then thinking every rotten piece of wood is the Cross –

LET ME CONJURE THE FLAMES!
I am sick unto death of this ivory tower and the frozen anaemics that mutter within –

LET ME DANCE ON THE WAVES!
I am sick unto death of existing to myself, to my own imagination, and perhaps to a few tattered raiment’s of time...

I need flesh – flesh and blood.

©Christian Weaver 2015


The Third Lamentation

I am he who has been sizzled
By the lightning of God’s wrath
I am corpse – a smoking corpse –
Of affliction and sin.

He has plunged me into blackness
and eternal night
Into the outer walls of darkness and chaos
Light-dreading and accursed. 

He has smeared me like ash
He has rolled me like clay
He has crushed me underfoot
Until my bowels spilled out
And my ribcage collapsed.

He has filled me with lesions
And leprous, demon-shaped sores
With white lips.

He has turned me into a wraith and a skeleton tree
A mere husk of a man
I am pallid as a ghost
And almost equal to a shadow.

He has shrouded me in silence and obscurity
Like the long-departed
He has built a house from my tomb
And a bed from my sepulchre
He has fastened every window 
and bolted every door

Even my prayers, though they flow from a wellspring
Of grief and desolation
Go unanswered

Even my prayers, though they rise like black tendrils
From the smoke of my torment
Go unanswered – And I am done.

©Christian Weaver 2015



Aphorisms.....

1) Assuming all prisoners are dangerous criminals is like thinking all free men are not.
2) Had they fathomed the power these chains would unleash, they’d have left me to die on the street.
3) America’s punishment for premeditated murder? An entire state premeditates murder.
4) My soul is a sword; these walls are the stone.
5) The life that I took has determined my fate. No one cares for the ones I have saved.
6) The law is a gate through which wealthy men pass; the poor man is seized on the wall.
7) Twins: Death sentence: “You’ve been sentenced to die by lethal injection.” Life sentence: “You’ve been sentenced to die by lethal rejection.”
8) If a death sentence is the immediate extinction of the body, then a life sentence is the gradual extinction of the soul.
9) Relative hell: It is not disputed that time seems to linger for what is painful and to hasten for what is pleasant, to crawl or fly according to the perceived pain or pleasure of an experience. We can therefore guess that prisoners, banished from family, freedom, and the opposite sex (and most of the things that make life worth living) are a miserable lot. They inevitably feel time as a terrible crawl. They serve out their sentence many times.
10) Solitary confinement: Banning a human from all contact with the species – and sexual segregation – banning the sexes from contact with one another – are worse than the crimes that invited such treatment.
11) Heroes and villains: The word of a prisoner carries as much weight against his keepers as that of a slave against his master in the antebellum South. If he is wrong, he is buried; if he is right, he is ignored (or retaliated against). A perfectly behaved prisoner, who is known as a saint, can be pointlessly attacked by a ruthless prison guard, who is known as a scoundrel – and the former will be shackled, tried, and banished from several years to an isolation chamber. The latter will be honored for his heroics.
12) Did you notice?: There are no conservatives in prison.
13) I am the eternally disenfranchised. I am an alien in my own country. I am a prisoner.
14) The most expedient form of slavery? When the slave thinks he’s free. When he rattles his chains and says, “Check out these bracelets!”
15) Beast in the basement: To imprison a man – to sever him completely from the female species and his very own family – is to deform his spirit with hatred, depravity, and sheer desperation. Week after week, year after year, it assembles a monster of filth and hidden vice. After years of such treatment it would be foolish, even criminal, to release such a creature to the general public. Better to keep him in chains.

©Christian Weaver 2013

Maxims

1) Be educated by all; be enveloped by none.
2) Pain is a whetstone for sharpening the soul.
3) To effectively rebel, one must learn to submit.
4) Those who fall farthest - - should they live - - climb the highest.
5) The conscience of a man will not suffer a lie; he awakes to find truth in his bed.
6) Collective madness is mistaken for sanity…the few undeceived are in chains.
7) Serial killers - -and hunters - - keep trophies.
8) A chemical key cannot open a door without closing one already open.
9) God, in His hell, allows many companions; but man invents solitary confinement.
10) War - - Old people fighting and young people dying.
11) Peace - - Professional killers who are out of a job.
12) America - - See U$A.
13) To battle the impossible will reveal its limitations.
14) A system by one soon devours the many: it consumes both the leash and the hand.
15) Poison peace - - When there is no one left to battle and the people are secure, they will fight against morality itself.
16) No turning back - - Seeking new knowledge is like climbing a ladder, only every rung passed disappears…
17) Self-sacrifice - - The sexual impulse perpetuates the species at the cost of the individual, whose existence it perverts and destroys.
18) A real bore - - If a man has free will, then he wills the same things; for history repeats the same cycles.
19) Interest - - Existence can be seen as a loan from the Reaper: we were conjured from nothing - - ex nihilo - - and do nothing we return when it’s time to pay up. The torment of dying is the interest.
20) The warrior - - Not a curse, but a challenge; not fate, but will.
21) The philosopher constructs a vast city - - his Rome. And then comes the flame of experience.

©Christian Weaver 2013

Maxims...

1) The unrequited lover is immune to hell’s flames.
2) Unrequited love is the greatest – and the most blameless - - tragedy.
3) Fingerprints of sin reveal life as a crime.
4) To battle the impossible will reveal its limitations.
5) Soul consumer - - A soul that’s on fire treats the body as fuel.
6) The largest animals feed the most maggots.
7) Scumbag - - The only joy left to the bottom-feeding soul is to help one repeat his decline.
8) What’s the artist’s greatest grief? To lack the talent of his vision.
9) Making an omlet - - The burden of the powerful? That to make a better whole he must break many parts.
10) He grows rich from the treatment to the illness he invented. He is capitalist to the dregs.
11) Plutocracy - - Capitalism plus democracy.
12) Give a man a slave and he’ll happily become one.
13) On greatness – The good great man, like the bad great man, enjoys the harems of power.
Greatness, like power, is a magnifying glass. Even vice becomes larger. Keep your heroes at a distance and you won’t be disappointed.
14) The genuine artist, if he cannot create, will inevitably seek to destroy.

©Christian Weaver 2013

Maxims

1. Ex nihilo – Freedom that’s expressed becomes actual freedom; it speaks itself into existence.
2. Who would strive to be free by his striving is free, but the comfortably free are in chains.
3. Life is a perpetual birth, a perpetual death, a perpetual dance of beginning and end.
4. Two insufferable degradations – to be valued exclusively as a labourer or a consumer.
5. America is the grand – and failed – experiment in maximum personal freedom and minimal personal responsibility.
6. America's motto - Produce, consume or get the hell out of the way.
7. Books are the thinking man's television. They're a babysitter with glasses.
8. Leading and Following - Better a seeing follower than a blind leader.
9. Promiscuous women lose attractiveness and depreciate in value, as do chaste value.
10. Furnace - Suffering refines the strong natures and corrupts weak ones.
11.Man the Sadist - Hell is what humans create for other humans, no more, and unfortunately, no less.
12. Sweet talk - The freer the country, the better it's propaganda: for force is no longer an option.
13. True Courage - To battle the impossible with the boldness of certainty.

©Christian Weaver 2014.

Aphorisms

1. Better know it – the right of the wealthy and clever to steal from the poor and ignorant is a tacit agreement, protected by law and understood, not spoken. Speak it, and you become incomprehensible; challenge it, and you become a felon.
2. Real acting – To act like you're acting - while you're acting - and thus to be yourself without anyone knowing. Ah, that's an art!
3. Hungry people fight for moral law; sated people fight against it.
4. Poison peace – When there is no one left to battle and the people are secure, they will fight against morality itself.
5. Acting on one’s conviction of “what is good” is frequently more dangerous than deliberate evil, for it adds self-deception to the mix.
6. Faith and necessity – god becomes real when the real becomes unbearable.
7. The democratic man, instead of analysing what his leaders say, selects them according to how well that they say it.
8. Hatch – I dart like a fly among men and ideas, laying my plague-worm of truth.
9. The brain’s convolutions are an in-folded serpent.
10. Self-sacrifice – the sexual impulse perpetuates the species at the cost of the individual, whose existence it perverts and destroys.

©Christian Weaver 2014


APHORISM EDITIONS BY CHRISTIAN WEAVER

1) Advice for Rabbits – Seize the hawk by its talons – better yet, by its beak. For it is better to risk death than to quiver in your den. It is better to be a fool than a coward
2) Dreamhead – If one´s life is but a dream, then his death is but a waking.


NEW APHORISMS

1) Life is but a dream… become lucid and fly
2) There is no chasm of difference that shared suffering can´t bridge.
3) Balloon – Striving against torment makes the spirit redouble.  It grows larger and lighter, leaves the body behind…
4) We are always  living and dying, always being reborn, always ending one chapter and beginning the next.
5) Psycles – One nature can change shape, but not substance or form.
6) The free will of orbits – Our perceptions and behavior can change radically, rapidly, and in ways we never dreamed. But never for a moment did they step outside the limits circumscribed by our nature.  We are as chained to that nature as the planets to their orbits, utterly will-less and unfree.  You can´t shock your own instincts.
7) On murder – the most repulsive thing about it is not its wickedness but its cowardice.
8) Some people turn to violence – not out of malice or ill-intent but to prove to themselves that they haven´t become cowards.
9) True Christians are not Christians out of guilt, or fear, or religious indoctrination. Their faith is rooted in sheer gratitude, in being rescued from the pit.
10) Candle – Faith scatters fear like light scatters darkness.
11) Life´s meaning and purpose can be reduced to this alone: to be redeemed by great suffering. When such torment becomes lacking, people make it for themselves.


Maxims

1. Art and Artists – the artist who still creates has not become a work of art.
2. Powerlessness corrupts. Absolute powerlessness corrupts absolutely.
3. Mind fuel – drugs are to t addict what food is to the human body. They are fuel, pure and simple. “Then what sobriety?” someone asks. “How do addicts perceive it?” As starvation.
4. Greatness and Morality – what to you is the hardest, the most awkward and painful, the most foreign to your nature and your greatest source of fear – this alone is your morality. This alone leads to greatness.
5. He was a legend in his own rhyme - - inscribed on my headstone.
6. Cooling the Tongue – for the addict, the true addict, it’s not a question of pleasure or escape or self-confidence or inspiration – but of making life bearable, of making hell less hot.
7. The virtue of rabbits – if confidence and honesty are built into your nature; if they are nearly automatic or demand no struggle – then for you they’re not ethical, laudable, or in any way right. For you they’re either cowardice (a sin of omission) or a blatant and aggressive act of sin and rebellion. Your virtue, Mr Rabbit, lies in plunder and stealth. Go to war!!

Assorted Maxims…

1)The pen and the sword –
 The purpose of writing is not only to inspire beauty and hope, not only for the author´s fulfillment and the reader´s imagination…but itself is a weapon of war.  To quote Mussolini: “Another weapon I discovered was the power of the printed word to sway souls to me.”  Aye – and he proved it – for The letter doth kill.
2) Three maxims on thoughts –
It is my practice not to visit, in dreams, those places I avoid when I´m awake.
Beware of the pen! It is bolder, and more gullible than thou art.
Do not venture with your mind where you wouldn´t with your staff.
3) Remorse receptors –
Guilt and shame are the addict´s self-atonement.  They´re the only restitution he can manage.
4) America is the grand experiment in maximum personal freedom and minimum civic responsibility.
5) Promiscuous women lose attractiveness and depreciate in value, as do chaste men.
6) To doubt God´s existence is more reasonable than to believe in His existence and yet fail to submit, constantly and completely, to His will.
7) On Crime and Law –
The worst crimes are not committed by criminals and deviants, but by ordinary citizens who are following the law.
The greatest crimes were perfectly legal at the time they were committed.
More deaths have resulted from following the law than from breaking it.
8) Two maxims on hell –
Hell is what humans create for other humans.  And themselves.
God, in His hell, allows many companions; but man invents solitary confinement.
9) The wisdom on Christ is a road to a palace, the wisdom of man scattered graves on the way…
10) Evil is organized without even trying.  Good is confused and alone.
11) A lust of the flesh that a man condemns openly is frequently the one he indulges in secret.
12) Modern science was founded by brilliant men who were driven by their passion to dissect, label and understand God´s universe.  Modern scientists, having built upon these men an understanding of the universe, disown the very One for whom their predecessors strove.
13) The Salvation of Sisyphus –

God will frequently answer prayers much later than you expect, sometimes years and even decades…sometimes, in fact, there appears to be a link between the depth of your need, and the fervency of your prayer, and the length of His delay.  But when He finally does answer it´s as vehement as lightening, almost ruthless in quickness, thoroughness, and finality of its effect.  Suddenly without prelude, your unbeatable opponent lies prostrate on the ground.  Suddenly, whatever demon, whatever sickness rendered life as merely tolerable at best, simply vanishes like smoke.  The stone rolls out of sight…




Christian Weaver 271262
BCCX - 24B - 202
1045 Horsehead Road
Pikeville, TN 37367