The Swayzing Wind Blows North, South

When a star is at last drained of its intense and beautified chemistry, the sky is compromised with the sorrow of a lamentable step towards lightlessness. On earth, material burbles forth, bursts and smudges back upon the vicious raping tide of nature. The consciousness of a human being is crystallized at the back of the throat, but flesh is a deceptive sheath which conceals the mind's factual protrusion, wherefrom we project our elemental character. But the form that material takes is sensually pleasing in ways that conceptual rays cannot be, and the mobilized inner creature fears and whines to see its fellow rent from beside itself. Prayers and utterances can seem outrageous and trite, faced with the murdering whirl off creation, but comfort can be garnered from contemplation of the scriptures.

This song of terror from the Canticlerium, in the Crossroads cycle, serves as a reminder of the celestial plan which continues always insisting its will involuntarily in the lowest crevice of our fate.

Processional

Ah, the sunny promenade
Of unlikely winners!

The horizon gasps with the pride
Of their shifting and changing.

They bring the gonging blow of division
To wedge it under the gums

Of humanity’s transgressive violation!

Parading from the networked lanes
Of judgment, goldenly assembled

To smear the cleansing pestilence
Around nature’s aperture.

See Squatting Rossette
Her shoulder slouched, her lip a-droop
Her two pennies scorched and bound in leather
At the hinges of her jaw.

And see Vain Tim
Prissing with his rope in hand,
And his blondly tightest pink.
Soakers and baskers, you sorry congregation
Teethe in his spreading juice
And have your noxious treat:

Vain Tim is young
But how his leg is scrappy, his hip chipped
He holds a book, his upturned throat
Froths ashes in the red west wind.

And see there! The Clumpy Hound
Scrabbling over the dawn bricks.
Flung gore and flecks of crumbled tooth
Spangle the town square, where he snuffs and coughs.

His crunched muzzle, yawping, sucks muck
Off gutter-cobbles, his happy, helpless flea,
Dangling and dangling
In cords of drool a-jangle about him.

Yours is his infected munching-worm,
Jostled in his rapid exhausted huff,
That pringles his tastes, and coaxes that red-dripping horn
Invented to cleave society and deposit the divine impression.

When the gods have festivalized the nations,
The vein along the planet lies striated with plague-froth.

Tufts of shag bound and breeze in the streets.

Here's a curious piece from the D.O.F.E. parable cycle about freedom, a timely theme.


Hound Men

Who is dischained holds five dogs’ leads.
His head turned West, his foot
tight inside his boot; the first dog
is his active body,

that perilously scales the geographies,
and forces the materials around itself.
The second dog sees him
with impossible clarity, what they know

together is a mystery entumbled in a vent
of discretion, the howl of restricted
melody winds the vice purpling the legs of the night.
The third dog goes before his vision

huffing slobber about the path,
the soiling inner pinkness of his motive.
The Fourth Dog paws coins
out of what tissues can be clawed apart.

The fifth, and final dog dies
drown with his snout in the bog.
Then he is dischained!

The dogs heave him off the throne of his stance,
into the dry, dry dust of the floor,
where foot and hoof traipse the mess

of the highways. As the precious fashioned
bauble tumbles from the stricken magistrate’s hands
clattering into renumerary form on the frigid

iron stairs of misconduct, the dischained man
digests the church of his vision in his furnace-like
bastion of mobile doubt.

New Scriptures!

Finally we've a spot to update you all on the progress of the forthcoming new translation of the Moonstone Continuum, The New American Lunarian Study Conti nuum. By the end of this year nearly an eighth of the Neutral Ring's phase four will be completed. Periodically we will be posting selections from the scriptures and the accompanying commentaries. Feel free to leave comments on the selections and discuss your own perceptual visions.

Here is the first section of The Garden Of Fair-Play which opens the first of the third set of parable cycles of phase four.

-NR:4;3.1,a.
The Garden Of Fair-Play

When it began to rain a woman ran
a losing way, lost at the western edge

of her raw-gardened lot in life.
Gnarl-thorn enclutched her un-cut locks;

fibrous wood-cotton swatches lacerated from her
heel (rarely uncalloused) to her toe (flawlessly wrought);

visions of unconceived-of violence seemed
constraining to her nudeness, like the garments

she‘d heard tell of, donned on Second Earth
by agonizingly disfigured adults stranded

dangling cruciform upon the ulcer of their shame.#
Momently she sorrowed more for these unknown

tortured brethren, than for her own
imminently threatened person,

over which she shed no tear:
her pedimental source of self was pavement, mortared

with high-headed pride, hard earned and justified.
But facing disempurity# by storm-death

how her heart contorted, she surely would never see
again her humble palette or her birthing trough.

But away above the roar, remaining coyly unbeknownst,
lazing ecstatic over lightning’s thin up-spray of striking hair,

voraciously enswooned so suddenly
I spied the raw explicity of her exposed predicament

and stood and sloughed my lingering drowse
vowing to shed aid on her lowly,

feeble, human, frightened frame.