Aberrant Sundays

Sunday morning sadists
sing discordant of their greatest sin
a stinging ricochet meets copper
in leather-bound summation of insidious domain

stifling sun of sordid swelter
writhing in self-flagellation
rising welts on skin born sacred

words belie the skies afire
irony left to the gallows
sworn in blood wine
bread of flesh
and symbolic disparity

all the passion reappears
when draped in ire
trapped in painted windows
tainted scenes of glass stained tragic
framed above the haloed heathens

listless martyr ever-looming
unrelenting sting of stigma
fingers crossed in accusation
pointing toward our innate state

of human beings being human

and then to see such opulence
flaunted about so garishly
attached to hands soliciting alms
from desperate indigents in worship

shameful exploitation stretching far beyond reproach
as the spoils of their devout extortion
are soon transposed to golden thread
to sew the splitting seams of pockets brimful

dismal are the dreams fixated on barren subsistence

what is reaped are mindsets of maniacal indoctrination
self-fulfilled by fearful deluge
ethical paralysis of covert imparting
compromising our capacity to comprehend
the consequences of our actions

framing death as moral answer
sacrifice of so called “soul”
a sentence served of self-inflicting
orchestrated by a savior
intrinsically born of usurping
based on baneful male womb-envy
guiding men with egos fragile

terminally compensating
gravely vying for control
through brazen claims of self-appointing
pathological presumption

placating their perceived lacking
tactless hordes of form barbaric
storm the streets to spread their poison
pious perpetrators of a violence unprecedented

viciously conniving for a self-sought absolution
through the veil of our avowal
of their never-ending avarice

they gaily flaunt before our faces
wonted are we to submit
and worse

to serve as known accomplice

Sunday morning moral comeuppance
plundering our forlorn plight
frightful death and heaven’s scorn
adorn the good book’s turning pages

if there still remained even a shred
of our humanity
it would be the first thing

we would burn

[image credit: Frank C. Pape]

Extant Toll

reeling from the shrill assail
falls entropy surreal
shrieking past in amaranthine streaks

present will
spawn futures fading

fanning flames
of phantom fears

the silphium of self-affliction

arms outstretched

wretched hands of spider-like accosting
insistent to collect the extant toll

mortals of a moribundity
so profoundly mundane

stranded on ledges
of bridges burned
at oblivion’s edge

a futile spiral of lament
into event horizon

[image credit: Freydoon Rassouli]

Momentary Introspection

perhaps i need a pointed slap in the face
rambling on in these fits of dolor
shameful displays of vulgar isolationist privilege
my natural state is one of positivity and emotional support
found when i consider others
but once i turn the looking glass inward
my world turns on its head
its dormant horrors readily fall from my cryptic thoughts
despite my adamant belief
that i am of a circumstance no worse than others
in fact, i live by the belief
that other’s plights eclipse my own
i feel like such a wretched child
parading about in all my pain
which might serve to allay my suffering
but i do fear i’ve crossed the line
this is not a plea nor pander
it is a fleeting flight of ponder
likely, soon found tucked away
obscured by thoughts effusive

 

[image credit:  John Bauer]

Pointed Lessons

the abstract tapestry of thought and emotion
sifting through memories
persisting beyond the toll of midnight

a surreality poignance fraught
amidst your fabled absence

through context into lucid light
those wayward flecks take flight

seeing now
the urgency defining bated breath

hindsight is a bird unbounded
heaven’s haste begets unheeding

by the merit of its taste
left on the tongue in lingering

how is it that voices lacking tangible disclosure
visibly vociferate through vales
our verities unseen

only to be vetted in the aftermath
of fate’s denouement

moments later, vested virtues
forsaken anew

by the nighest conscious duress
of my conscience’s affording

i will honor your bestowing
in the bastion of my breast

pray not let these pointed lessons fall
when life resumes its pique

[image credit: Edouard Goerg]