The Resurrection of Roman Osric Grey (prologue, part I)

And onto these tumorous remains,

And malignancy and shunning and fungi,

And hatred of all things touched by the light of the Earth’s STAR,

Tatters of clothe and skin (hair and fingernails continued to grow),

I scalpel a heart,

Still beating (since last December),

Beneath four stories of ice,

Decades of self mutilation,

And mildewed, wet, death dreams,

This is your trilogy,

The drunken Father,

The schizophrenic Son,

And the holy Ghost (of your Mother).

I destroy your burial seal,

A powerful mark,

Binding you to your grave,

Holding you to the dirt and the dust,

The door now forced wide open,

Your rambling path cleansed,

All of my breath,

All that is left of me,

Pushed from my mouth (my lips covering your lips),

Into the black hole that use to be your mouth.

Returning

Barely beating,

Blind,

And Broke,

Heaving,

Heavy,

But hopeful,

This tick tocking,

Tacking,

React,

Retracting,

I will return.

Golem

I raise you clean spirit,

Of the earth,

From sacred ground,

And secret mound,

Of happy singing skulls,

And fornicating cadavers,

Your footsteps of dirt,

Across my creaking wooden floor,

And your handprints of mud,

Smeared on white wall,

From room to room,

Your whispers to me,

Dust in my ear,

As my lips quiver,

And crack.

City of the Dead

Storm this city of dead black blood,
Shake its foundation,
With your screams of the moment,
As you dig our trenches,
Sharpen our bayonets,
And build our barricades,
Let God swim straight through you,
Let Him bleed into me,
Let the Devil come in too,
And suck me dry,
I am dull of all this,
Lame to existence,
On a cot with mangled limbs,
Blue balls,
And severed heads,
Feeding the ravens,
And feeding the crows,
You make me feel new,
You make me feel whole.

Extinction

Hungry shining,
Corners soaking wet,
And burning,
Crossed stars,
And across the street,
Holes in my head,
And the holes in yours,
If not lost,
Surrendered,
If not in question,
Forgotten,
Something reminded me of something else,
It might have never happened,
Stalking the scent of a memory,
Preserved passionately beneath pavement,
Laid with conditioned behavior,
And triggering reactions,
Crossing the street again,
As stars hit the Earth,
Embarrassing passers by,
And endangering species.

The Silver Cage Holding My Heart

Of sick,
Sickly sleep,
Stunned,
And remissions,
Back and forth,
And back on all fours,
This escaping hairy, hoary heart,
Wrapped,
And held tight,
Sticky,
Bloated bandages,
And matted fur,
Snuck back into the house,
Let loose,
With my own hands,
To murder continuity,
And contaminate time,
Pillow cases keep record,
And sexual innuendos pin suicides to wandering beds,
Bait the silver cage with fresh meat,
And trap it drunk,
In hand,
With wooden stake and mallet,
Latch and force the door,
Close this cycle for yet another thousand years.

The Doubt of My Debris

Debris and subsonics,
Rot, fungi and dreg,
Dirges, doubts and decayings,
Needs knelt far down,
Below,
By the bank,
Of the river bed,
Left strung to a tree branch,
Slit,
And slowly,
Spill,
From head to toe,
Returning back down,
And giving back,
To the water and to the ground,
Give me back the dirt and sticks,
Give me back the mud and stones,
Give me back the songs of the birds in the sky.

The Soft Star

Soft star,
Strung,
Through,
Strings,
Out,
Bombarded,
Light years,
Shower,
Red flowers ember,
Cinders covering,
Mountain sides on fire.

Be Still

Sip,
Still,
Bowl lip,
Mouth,
Drips,
Siping,
Swallows,
Stay here,
Stop time,
And be still.