The song has been sung.

I have bled my god upon thy page;

Bled in lust, bled in pain, 

bled in sorrow and rage.

I composed this counterfeit

when He could not be found;

I have hewn My new god 

from language and sound.

(self-Epitaph)

That Crepuscular Journey.

I stabbed my feet into an indigo sand dune at dusk.

One after another, ascending to its zenith;

and there I heard the ocean's scream,

like a slowly, steadily drowning sailor.

I could not fathom why I came here, only that I did,

so I pissed on a beach shrub and covered the piss with sand.

My eyes were getting old and it was nearly night,

the headland was difficult to distinguish from the sea.

Anti-iridescent, in violet, navy, and peacoat

those screaming waves attacked the shore -

casting themselves unto oblivion,

remorseless, unfathoming, like a troupe of insects.

I too have been remorseless, I too have been a force of nature,

swishing around the corpses of men that dared to battle me.

But now I am like the earth, and I accept what is given,

and I remember. Forever. And I keep silence.

Imprisoned.

I long for her all through the day,

inspired by her lissom beauty;

that I could spend my years reclined this way,

were words and art my only duty.

There encircled by her spiralling flesh,

where deepest thought can fin'lly be expressed,

the worldly chaff from out my soul there I can thresh,

when my all guilts and triumphs I confess.

And there at last, unburdened, can I simply "be",

as solemn as some silent, separative sea.

With nothing left but love, and love to do,

yes my pathetic unrequited love for you.

Birthday.

As into your senescence you descend

I'm glad that one such as you calls me "friend".

For though the many miles do intervene,

my heart has kept you ever captive as its Queen.

I esteem the many laughs, and games we played;

your voice a balm that keeps me cool and antegrade.

Should I perish, what I'd cherish is your presence,

when from within my entropy rips effervescence.

I ask: which joyous Fate or Furie didst me bring

this companion heart who causes mine to sing?

For her constellation in the sky is bright,

forever will she be my sole and guiding light.

(dedicated to "Cassiopeia", my dear heart)

Allein fur Immer.

Es bin nur Ich

allein

fur Immer;

gefangen mit der schnöde Gesselschaft.

Eine Lebenszeit ist wortlich eine Ewigkeit,

und Ewigkeit ist der begrenzende Abgrund.

Ich langweile mich in unbegrentzer Dauer

mit die Rückkehr von gedanken.

Ja, alt Erinnerungen Höhepunkte sind,

aber wozu?

Genau wie gebrochene Versprechen,

und unerfüllte Séhnsüchte.

Ausreden belaufen sich auch zu nichts

(sie bedeuten mir nur etwas).

Zerstreuung, das ist pure Leere:

eine flache, flackernde Flamme.

Ich ziehe meine stachelige Rüstung an,

obwohl ich nicht gehen kämpfe.

Denn ich habe mich

vor langer Zeit ergeben.

O Sickened Rose.

O sickened Rose, thou must have wept

when thorn and prick aside were swept.
Mankind grew not, by year or day,
and swept its own thorn far away.

In sanitising golden shower,
relentless in consumptive power;
in gold and marble, this was hewed:
self-image most untrue and skewed.

To live immortal, endless lives,
to some would seem the grandest prize.
But Midas, weighed down by his gold,
knew this was folly as of old.

To encase the mind in perfect steel
would be most fine, these people feel!
So wonder, Rose, wonder how we
by our own thorn can't prick-ed be.