Blankeanism concerto for Flageolet and Spinrel
I feel every bullet entering every body-
every shattered tine of heart bleeding beneath the soldier's tread
What is art? This variation
in the microscopic macroscopic
this vacillation of the lighthouse soul
The faeries in the garden titter and do not fret
for their time will come again and again.
The slender phallus of an arrow-shaft gliding through flesh and organ
the soldiers lie in untidy heaps
and the world weeps, and beats its breast,
but where is the scion of justice?
Where is the justly-won prize?
Rotting flesh yields to the hunger of flies
and the sky is darkened from east to west.
What cataclysm will end us?
Strange plagues awakened from arctic ice
or specially prepared by some winsome government
a gradual poisoning by nuclear waste
a sudden act of self-destructive zeal
rockets arching like tender buds
to greet the sun of fusion?
O petty beautiful beings
these human chattel
rammed through meat-grinders
and soaked in angelic vision
the frail bread of Christ touches my lips
and I am made unholy
What is the beast and why do his horns number seven?
The steps leading to the temple of wisdom
are seven in number
the steps and stages
are quantified for the solidification
of a revelatory framework
We build our own conceptual stairways
to the gods
But is this too obvious?
Symbols fade in opiate smoke
and become the indistinct caricature of demons.
The wings of the angels intersect
with the brining-pits of hell
Hell is pickling
Hell is preservation
True base crawling wretched whimpering uncouth unsound Hell
Is the clinging to things long after they decay.
We lie with the corpse of ancient ideas
Mouth maggots, tongue the dead
and venerate embalmed mysteries.
The cocoon is ripe with corruption.
The squirming potential writhes and dies
to yield blessed fruit.
We are more than we seem.
More than we say.
More than we know.
More than we believe.
More than we conceive.
More than we fear.
We are legion. Lesion. The maggot imbues purification. The energy of the apocalypse is merely another tool. The wielding hand determines intent.
Copyright Scott J. Couturier 2014