The disasters we perpetuate
on one another,
if added up,
would weigh down
the strongest of giants,
the most powerful of angels
If you will not submit,
I will call truce.
I will meet with you
in the garden,
and I will offer up my hands,
and lift to you not surrender,
I will tell you,
that if we cannot
conquer one another,
perhaps we were simply
meant to rule,
There are times
I think about
singing to you,
calling you up
from miles away
and singing to you
all the songs
that used to be ours,
but aren’t anymore.
I wonder if
you gave them away
like I had to,
to make sure
there weren’t empty spaces
where you’d once been.
Did you fill up
the spaces of me
so you could push me away,
or did you only realize
you had to do it
after the fact?
You might have been
leaving me humiliated,
wondering what I’d done wrong,
how I could’ve been better
I realized later,
when I heard she ate sticks of butter
and cut herself for attention,
the stings our hearts get,
as children in love,
are like vaccinations,
for later relationships,
to keep us from getting infected
What I learned from you
I won’t give up our secrets
until you’re cold
and I have stopped mourning you.
(or maybe before; how could I ever stop?)
I’ll take out a 2 page ad
in the New York Times,
and tell the world.
I know you think I mean him,
(but it’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you)
but you’re the only one
who will hear
and know that I mean it
(full of nostalgia)
in all the best of ways.
When I was a young man,
I did not tell anyone
about the time
I tied feathers to my arms
and tried to fly.
I did not have the gift
Icarus’s father had,
of being able
to build something
I did what I could.
I built something,
and I used it
to reach for the heavens.
but I have
a little piece of sky in my pocket,
and I carry it with me,
Loreena McKennitt – “Cé Hé Mise le Ulaingt? (“Who Am I To Bear It?”)/The Two Trees”
“The Two Trees”
by William Butler Yeats
BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
That poem’s about death, despair, awakening, and the transcendent initiation between the Sephirot and the Qlippoth.
…Am I going to die, today? Like, maybe in a metaphorical alchemical crucible kind of thing?
Peter Gabriel – [The Tower That Ate People]
tonight, the gods are sick of being gods.
aphrodite drinks your worship straight from your lips
and chases it with a scotch, crashes a cigarette,
flicks the ash on the floor and leaves
without so much as a thank you.
you find apollo in a nightclub on 55th and 3rd,
his prophets writhing in the intermittent darkness,
bassline pounding in their ears, liquor coursing in their veins,
smoke and strobe lights clouding their eyes.
you watch as ares starts a fight in a dive bar, takes
a knife from his pocket and uses it without flinching,
smiles as he wipes the blade on his thigh,
smashes a bottle on the floor and lights a match.
artemis spends the night in a jail cell,
blood on her knuckles and on her shirt and in her mouth,
the smell of metal lingering in the air.
athena chainsmokes in an alleyway,
waits for a boy with dark eyes and a mouth like sin.
dionysus shoots up in a basement in the seedy side of town.
hades stalks the streets, hazy in the fog of the streetlamps.
tonight, the gods are sick of being gods
and somewhere in the city
their forgotten divinity waits for morning.