I imagine heaven is a blue Ive never seen, tinged with silver infusions and the destruction of the sky is the altar of heaven angels at war and humans making art to last a lifetime, or many; delusions keep us tethered to the same tree, and though we sing a song to our lovers ever so close, there is an absence which can barely be sensed or spoken of; its a loss the apotheosis of loss the kiss that haunts you with what it cost --- giving away your soul, turned into a ghost, the glass around you reflected, translucent the images of your past selves swam up from the unconscious, like sharks, and every image was made for you, where we build and build upon a hill with hammers and saws and nails and wood the thing to inspire our nights its on the tip of my tongue, co-union, and this bedecked bejewelled paradise is of the fake sort, I once thought. This is it! All your passions flowing Through you in silence; your gladness is subdued and the angels are winning! So hell is after -- the fall which is an effect. Ive been searching this silver-blue sky And all I can find are incommensurable images The likes of which Id like to gather Into a bouquet of gladness, serve it to you; but this only happens at rare moments when the constellations echo the others movement (I know you have a heart in space Far away from here; I know from your touch Where youve been, and that youll go) So serving heaven is our wish, And we waste time with wishes because To sink into the hopeless pit To rhapsodize with the decrepit The deceased speaking to me (You must will your way into paradise, But not work towards a thing; Your passion can burn as well as cool) Rations of your sensation Make the echoes in tandem and havoc Falls down upon the world A concordian happening because desire And its subject were wedded for an instant And forever more will be Where those sharks are now out of place Where the memories stay alive And thats blood in the water For them to catch the scent And we are drugged up and famous Dragging our nails and wood and saws And hammers And we notice our imperfections Which are like quirks And we build and look at what we build And tear it all down After 100 years.
Posted on: Fri, 27 Jun 2014 22:24:04 +0000