Posts Tagged ‘John Keats’

These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non-designer.

Their mascara running.

 

Is not America Satanic enough?

 

Bearing scars,
on infected arms.

 

Tripped store alarms.

 

Well-known tricks
that sell their souls quick
for a bag to get off sick.

 

A land where your existence
can be & is
measured & weighed
to wind up factored
in as an economy.

 

Do not tell stories
of a dark reality.

 

The hell with Crowley.

 

Want it scary?

 

Journey down into
the heart of darkness,
the INNER city.

 

Behind every building,
under every bridge,
in every bathroom stall,
are our cities’ deepest pits.

 

There the dark sits,
the darkness lives.

 

We need the real Gothic.

 

Those who burned the body of Percy.

 

His heart collected,
from the ashes,
of his great funeral fire.

 

The poet’s heart,
is even more notorious,
for its indifference to flame.

 

A heart enveloped
in its poem Adonais.

 

Words which lamented
the untimely death
of a young J. Keats,
& praised his immortal
body of work.

 

Magnificent lights that never stay with us.

 

Where are the:
Blakes
Keats
Byrons
Clares
Shelleys
Coleridges
& Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?

 

she IS dying…

 

Who here will burn their hand,
taking her heart from the embers of the fire?

 

Who will wrap her heart in the blood-soaked Constitution?

 

That shining poem…

 

Written as testimony,
by those that came before:
that they were here,
that they saw truth,
that they would crawl,
in starved agony,
from underneath the tyranny,
of aristocracy.

 

A call to rise from our knees.

 

That shining moment…

 

We still believed,
even after,
this dark wind of apathy,
swept over the streets,
& destroyed our cities.

 

Now is the time…

 

We can finally breathe.

Now is the time…

 

For us to speak.

 

For us to dream.

 

Now is the time…

 

We must die to live again.

 

 

©2012 ZENspeak9 publications un/incorporated

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I The Circles Revisited I

I’ve convalesced with the best

You can see my footprints

Across the Margate Sands

Somehow lived to bear witness

To Eliot’s Waste Land

What I’ve known I now believe

A moment of dying

Turns eternity to beauty

Letters; shades of their former selves

Never fail to form the words of Gods

Archaic languages spoken fluently

Dreaming dead dreams of desolation

Obtained my very own, house of pain

See much denial but we’re all the same

Release me from the benediction of being alive

A blessing not always a guarantee life

We dead reside where death is the inspiration

No longer vainly, I commit suicide

Not for myself, but to acheive spirituality

Traverse through the means of verse

Descend into the limbo so rehearsed

Where there is nothing divine

In this dark comedy

Only the “comfort of being sad”

Converse in ranting-ramblings with the insane

Stained from the sins of an absent dad

Circling the seventh circle with Plath & Cobain

Soulless souls lost in this abyss

Said T.S.,

 He’d show me fear in a handful of dust

Forsaking the God in which they trust

& I nod down to number nine

There, politicians;  preacher/nationalists

Beckon me to invoke Ezra’s influence

Bestowing sight in a land of the blind

II Number 9 II

Then, as if struck by a swift-sudden chill

Groaning & shivering, almost seemed still

One man stood mumbling, looking out the gate

The dream through which moments ago I came

He began to stir, pacing & waiting

Noticing me, he approached debating,

& you! Do you know, what it is to be?

Oh Hannah, my Hannah, I’m so sorry…

Being in time, time in being; I wrote…

Never mind the swastikas on my coat,

I told a thousand Jews a thousand times,

Intended to change things from the inside.

Interest lost, he turned back for the door

Though he muttered, he spoke to me no more

I waded through vapor rising from ice

Bodies frozen still by their own device

& across this sheet was Ronnie Reagan

Freezing, begging, with the other masons

I neared the middle of the frozen room

There HE was feasting; guarding her blue tomb

You are the Beast & I am your disease.

I did as you pleased; me, you must release.

Must I now? Here you dictate what I need?

Best not hesitate! On your knees & plead.

But still quite curious, please do pray tell:

What would charm you from a warm home like hell?

I must confess, I sizzle like the best.

But I’ve nothing left & there’ll be no rest.

My suffering is, with or without you.

Turn me loose, I’ve given you more than due.

There lives no truth in the Father of Lies.

With that he stretched his mouth & outpoured flies

This buzzing a noise I did recognize

My alarm buzzed; the dream now realized

Ashes To Ashes III

The power of the prodigal son

He returns to resurface

As his life renewed begins to surge

How your home has missed you

Crying out to forgotten kingdoms

& you return with empty arms

But soon to be filled

For forget this unforgiving nepotism

& their esoteric whisperings

They fear that which has nothing to lose

& we’re penniless but priceless

For fire has tempered steel

We all wield the power to resurrect thyself

Can’t be explained until it’s learned

Until you are burned

Baptized through fire; my sins I will purge

I ascend from the circles

Back to this land of the truly lost

Entombed fabrication of commercial realities

Where every act of love has its cost

& it’s burying us alive

Here I find myself amongst

Manifestations of manufactured identities

I once mistook for individuality

Don’t step over that line

Your neighbor is watching

So soon it is that I curse my return

Sometimes a journey so dark

Can illuminate where a better life finds rest

Granting great passion to kings

Inspiring songs poetry sings

Those moments pop legends sing of great glory

But we, the weak

That sought little reward to no avail

We pursue the darker/deeper quest

Yet, one way or another

Lord of the kingdom or Prince of thieves

We all search for an empty Grail

& I am just too tired for their games

Not matter how eloquent

I leave with the loves lost too soon; leaving

For the shores of Avalon

To draw from its winter waters

To extinguish infernal burns

Go gently gather my ashes

From the lands they’ve been scattered

Collect them in a Grecian urn

END…

(excerpt from ZENspeak ©2013)

Buy ZENspeak publication now at:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/deadBEATpoetry

official website:

http://zenspeaknine.com/

These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non/designer.

& their mascara running.

Is not America Satanic enough?

I bear scars.

Saw infected arms.

Heard store alarms.

I/ve known tricks

that sell their souls real quick

for a bag to get off sick.

A land where your existence

is measured and weighed

& factored in as economy.

Do not tell me

about the dark reality.

The hell with Crowley.

You want scary?

Go into the heart of darkness;

the INNER city.

Behind every building,

under every bridge,

in every bathroom stall,

are our cities’ deepest pits.

There the dark sits.

Where are the real Gothic?

Those who burned the body of Percy?

Whose heart was collected

from the ashes of that great funeral fire.

For the human heart

is notorious

for being difficult to burn.

His heart enveloped

by his poem Adonais.

Words which cemented

Keats’s legacy.

Those magnificent lights that never stay with us.

Where are the:

Blakes and

Keats and

Byrons and

Clares and

Shelleys and

Coleridges and

Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?

For she IS dying…

Who here will burn their hand taking her heart from the embers of the fire?

Who will wrap her heart in the already*blood*soaked constitution?

That shining poem…

Written as testimony to those that came before us:

That we were here.

That we saw truth.

That we would crawl from underneath

the tyranny of aristocracy.

Never again living on our knees.

That shining moment…

When we still believed.

Before this dark wind of apathy

swept over the streets of our cities.

Now is the time…

We can finally breathe.

For us to speak.

For us to dream.

Now is the time…

We learn to live again.

 

 

 

http://zenspeaknine.com/

The night,

dark and cold.

Galloping hooves echo,

in succession,

announcing the procession,

of a horse with no rider.

No strider,

along its side.

The saddle slides,

slipping with each stride.

Ominous…

This empty train of hot breath.

Warning…

The too soon bereft.

http://zenspeaknine.com/