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

and flooding

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