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.

Oh Carnal Goddess, Ye.

I'm going to take You to the worst restaurant in town,

after we rock & roll,
Oh, ye Carnal Goddess.

We'll laugh at our scathing reviews,
after we make love,
ye Carnal Goddess.

To have been inside You is not to have been You,
before or after sex,
ye Goddess Carnal.

I just want to know You,
see things through Your eyes,
Oh Goddess Carnal, ye.

When Gilgamesh crashed through the forest of cedar
to chop down the tallest tree and it recover,
You paid him no mind, as you slept by Humbaba,
for You knew that deeper within was another.

I want to book us on a commercial space flight,
after we rock & roll,
Oh, ye Carnal Goddess..

I want to talk with you intellectually
after You fuck me stupid,
ye Carnal Goddess.

I want to sing You Purple Rain,
after we get sweaty,
Oh, Goddess Carnal.

I want to bathe in the light
and the beauty of your being,
ye Goddess Carnal, ye.

Some say in sideways splits between the thighs;
caramel and rapacious, the Beauty firm and lithe.
Some say it out loud to stars while in strains of storied passion.
But to you,
to you I will reveal it only
after we rock & roll, Carnal Goddess,
Eternal Goddess ye;
cynosure of sensation,
mystery of my elation.

Twelve guitars.

Twelve guitars that failed to teach me enlightenment,

milk-crate furniture that failed to make me cool or edgy

(but nonetheless has been very practical so far) -

all this encircles my reflection,

in that serene suspended moment, when

laughter sounds in another's rooms

(whose closed doors have erections at crotch-level).

In their hemispheres of shit, they seek love,

or pass the time pretending to.

I live out a lie: repositioning my posture in pathetic mimicry,

while I attend to the grace of falling.

In the uneasiness of alone, I ride the large storm,

electrifying myself with a science of scienceless aesthetic!

This, I have elevated to the status of a god-concept, sacrosanct.

But neither it nor l can be fulfilled,

or have not yet figured out how, or why.

A number of books I have not yet read

point at me and laugh from up high,

painting the portrait of my failures coming closer.

I take it all in my stride, and make a decision to decide to defeat them.

Have them inside, a deicide, as I eat them.

Wars.

Shin stabbing, rip apart

the pieces of the flesh. 

A rough-headed roustabout 

who's sure to leave a mess. 

What you could do wasn't good enough,

you left it half-finished, now it's ended. 

Broken in two like a cigarette, alone 

with the torment you have tendered .

I mistook pity for love -

love for myself, not another.

Washing skin with trickling blood,

I stopped accepting the other.

Welding on the steel to the bone,

the strap came down and made me quite stroppy.

Answering, these ten questions of hurt

the voice that responds to me seems kind of curt

and all of this mired in your filth and your dirt...

 I couldn't walk for a year or two... I couldn't see...

Waiting.

Waiting, in my anxious grief,
she had the nerve to steal me like a thief.
I wonder if I'll get less nervous in time
as I walk this burnt and broken line.

These girls (who want to sleep with me) -
I can only hope they'll set me free,
because a worry fills my lonely cell.
Yeah, love has come and sent my head to hell.

In gold and in brown my stomach heaves.
Emergency: we'll burn these dying leaves.

Now I'm here at her door, now I'm here in her garden
but I throw up again, so I'm begging her pardon.

And I am outside, all the time
brandishing a stupid, empty rhyme.
Wherein no truth or tact is found
and hope lies bleeding helpless on the ground.

Perspective.

Getting some perspective on perspective (from a distance). 

Giving good time a run / a break from your money. 

Chasing up cloud dreams / a storm for your body. 

Exhaling perpendicular to parallel and all there is in between 

Retro-compiling consciousness in an exegesis of psychology.

Multiple divergency: the error of the psychonaut.

Undefined consequence - corollarily cancelled on a mis-fired synapse 

I am one, I am all, I am one, I am all, I am one, I am nothing.

Wandering with a wanderlust that's working itself into a sermon. 

Breathing in the shadows that flitter through the time-crawl.

Far away, on a distant star, a cosmos sighs relief

and fills a honeycomb with a fractal field that beggars all belief.

Experiential insight (now you're in for the whole enchilada),

drawing close the things you know - things people have said to you.

I wonder through the misty haze (that burns a shadow on my brain)

whether all is one, or one is all, or if I've misbehaved.

I was never born to float this bubble

I was never born to whip this cream

I was never born to feel this troubled

I was floating lost within a dream.

Obfuscation.

We're all guilty of loving you:

of having brushed our hands

against the litheness of your back.

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

I'm guilty of having liked you,

of having had you,

of holding you.

Guilty thoughts:

"I love you",

"I await you",

"I destroy you".

Whilst the obfuscation syndrome

(that shadow from beneath my skull),

crawl'd across the floor

through the dust and the mud.

We're all guilty of loving you: 

of dreaming you, exploring you;

setting search by starlight 

for the intimate delight. 

The promise of your politeness 

and perky, chocolate nipples -

enough to send me mad,

quite mad!

For joy is rare occasion'd.

Empirically we think we search for cures to obfuscation:

yours within the word (and smell),

with mine beneath the eyes.

I have kissed you,

I have known you,

but that never would suffice!

All this I must confess, and thus allow under the sky.

All you'll be guilty of afterwards...

All we'll be guilty of afterwards...

All I'll be guilty of afterwards...

is letting you walk by.

For weal or woe -

Goodbye.

Wave Goodbye.

As usual,

tonight

I am there,

with casual fingers coursing through my casual hair.

With nails

being buried

beneath my spine.

Oh, the blackness is sublime (and it's all mine).

And I wonder just where you were,

when the blackness in my head turned upside down.

Oh, the ceilings became the floor (waved goodbye),

and nothing has been the same since then.

I see you turn

away from

me,

and I bear the curse. I bathe my head in treachery

to wash away

the sin

of my pride,

my silent silence (inside). 

And I wonder (with longing hands on my longing head)

oh, what it's like to be a little more together in the head.

I find myself as a supplement,

a sacrifice for a sacrament.

But what my soul was found lacking in:

that was bountiful in you.

Ishtar of the Inner West.

Cool kisses

beneath my skin.

I spread my wings,

you sink within

the storm that rages

between my thighs.

The colour bleeds

from out my eyes.

Because I settle on the beast I find in you,

my dark and brooding monster.

Thieves (in silence, 

that shell my harbour) 

feel so turgid 

in lustful ardour. 

A raunchy burlesque 

cabaret: 

I take them home.

I fuck all day. 

I fornicate with the florid flurry assembled,

in a manner that would make Venus blush.

I fuck the elements,

with my quickening breath give birth

to the stars, to the moon, and to the Earth.

The liquid cosmos is pulsing alive,

the micro and macrocosmic

are becoming intertwined.

Jars (early song version)

I covered my foot with mud the other day. 

It discordantly took me away 

to the time when I played in the soil -

a little girl, encasing things in jars. 

My remorse hangs a horse 

(it's the bookie's odds that'll kill you).

Like a race-track nose-bleed,

this is a drug that will still you

In my belly 

(sharp and poison'd.

Deep inside me, 

poisoned stars). 

How'd I earn these empty shoes I walk in? 

By putting things in jars.

What do we think we keep in the jars then? 

Spiders, or a sharp.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

The losers of our heart.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

Those that simply aren't.

What do we think we keep in the jars then?

All with which we start:

black, pagan concepts.

The cocoon (or shell)

might fall apart

from the start,

and will never grow in this place. 

Imaginary photographs

on a plastic shrine.

Well my god's got his,

but I still don't get mine.

What do you think we call those in jars then?

The poisons of our heart.

Where do you think we keep all those jars then?

Furthest from our heart.

What do you think we keep in the jars then?

Jars in jars in jars.

What do you think the jars keep in jars then?

That of which they're part:

black, pagan concepts.

Enki Wandered South Of Nan.

In disgusting profuseness

you grow me here a tree.

Of illegitimate abundance -

the bastard son of a crow.

And Mithras was nailed to a tree by Mithras.

By Mithras!
The tree has been stolen

by lies (enveloping Gilgamesh,

enveloping Enki and Ishtar),

which are drawing down the heavenly bull

and parading it in nightly paroxysm.

So what would we know

from the blood of this crow?

Do we eat it and gain its wise insight?

More wisdom than learned from its cawing,

its birdsong,

sunburnt by billowing ragtime.

We'll dig on this day for it's bones

in a copse of cold cryptomeria,

an antiquity, a black gulf of time.

The usurpers have cost us just everything.