My life wears a sarong sash of
Van Gogh greens & mythic tapestries,
of the Earth’s water-blood & soil-skin,
dawned of the frost father, Ymir,
in his dismembered image.
I struggle —
to jot tempest movements in a moment,
when my marionette muscles strain in age;
but I would write still, on broken fingers,
even if a humble life would allow me to tenant
in Elysium and crown a hero-halo over my brow,
I would torch my ghost in ghastly flames,
stirred in my scorn to live now, even if
in this life the Lord’s trumpeters would not
bless me with silver-gleamed wisdom.
And lightning-barbs would have to
thorn my baying heart before I
take heed of the old saying:
beware the gáe bolga.
Upon my canvas paint, dries a new scene:
Fleet-footed ranger fires a fletched arrow,
studded with the twinkle of time, tearing
scourge marks upon the celestial cloth.
A brilliant black swallows Ouranos whole,
bearing a new primordial embryo to begin
its rebirth — booming an orchestral roar
as virgin skies, spattered of cosmic color,
take newborn inhabitance over the gods.
A world schism breaks against way of life,
wildfire ignited of the Horsemen’s trails
spring forth polychromatic gardens,
the heavens collapse cloud kingdom,
and I can finally see: gilded visions
flamingo horizons drape the cloud fabric.
Lest we forget Death, he too fares mercy
so stay in the dark!
Dear Reaper, of all insistent foul pervading so,
I beseech thee, heavy anchors thy blade,
and I may yet hear thy winged-scythe howl,
bring tyrannicide, purge my rotten life.