The Gospel of Arson

The cover shines anew.

Illustrated versions of a primordial sense of morality.

Sustained by guilt,

whitewashed in sanity.

The witness of the anointment.

Chorus of hope, Cherubs in procession

the evangelical preacher and the otherworldly gleam

of sons holding lanterns to the deathbed of their fathers,

of the haunting competence to identify archetypal patterns,

of silent hermits in the present of others,

of monstrous constructions-rows of corridors and ladders.

Of life made so simple, it suddenly matters.

The witness of all, idle and mundane.

Matches to flints, cans of propane

three carbon alkane.

See three, Age Eight

the blister is a sister to burning bright

assisted to maturity, a doleful delight.

Predicaments of horror

I should have and I might

infuse in my tea

with God on my sight.

The witness to the warmth

of the wine and the tavern.

The life I lost is the life I tried to govern,

so identical to you with a fleeting so sudden.

I saw it all, I saw it happen.

I worked, thinning my wax to nothing

abrasive is the one who treads

indifferent to the feast and the dancing.

Unstoppable train with no brakes,

it sheds tears in its speed meeting aches.

But your eyes that day, so enchanting

they pierced through my chest,

they planted unrest,

and thoughts ever so alarming.

The witness to Kingdom come.

A rhyme, full of expectation.

Silly words of wise old men

do not fit the equation,

only serve the authorities fetish

to cherish each and every citation.

But the kites, the kites were high

hovering over your naked shoulders,

your long hair and your milky way smell,

you are above and beyond

a symbol of heaven, a vagabond from hell

a milestone to a fairly undecided destination.

The witness to the God that giveth and the God that taketh

for it’s the incineration of the past that this man maketh

standing in salvation’s queue

reality is folded,

white nightgowns you wear

and titles that wear you.

Were you to count your losses, what would you do?

Would you keep your mouth shut and create a taboo?

Or open up to the maelstrom of the floating nothings you accrue.

The witness to the plague.

A sky that bears fire. A landslide for the devils.

A poem far too vague.

A countenance too pious to be apologetic.

To the garden that sprouts,

where we secretly touched each other’s mouths.

With the moths and the soothing chirping of robins.

Like the loom that you spring to knit spring

and your fly that started to dance with the bobbins.

Your caress. It is known to me as destiny’s fabric.

In our first holiday album that I keep in the attic.

Life is and has been- too great to accept this schematic.

The witness to the Passions.

The mind is unable innately

to be happy is what the body excels in instead.

The mind is screaming, indebted and frets

as the body is to amaze

with its orgasmic craze

and the jam that you keep in a jar.

The mind is ever so displaced.

It created the parallels but never the line that you paced.

Anticipation as if life is a race.

It takes time and whisky and more time and whisky to erase.