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.