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.
With years passed,
on Death’s watch,
I’m trembling —
to jot the tempest winds of a moment,
when my marionette muscles strain in age.
But I would write still, on broken fingers,
even if a humble life
would grant tenancy 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
do not gleam me with silvered wisdom.
And lightning-barbs would have to
thorn my baying heart before I
take heed of the old saying:
beware the gáe bolga.
A new scene dries over my canvas sash:
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.