Published by Friar Turk in the blog Friar Turk's Ramblings and Poetry. Views: 283

The blood must be re-claimed from the soil

With the heavy bodies bent with lust and toil
Each rivening day strifing the rule of the garden
The mohammedans straking for some pardon
Not for themselves or all alone under banished sky
For all the abandoned who look forward to die

Nothing so simple as an unwanted blessing
A mercenary corp of doctors or hessians
The great stock of whisky, a limited edition
A dusty tome of Aristotle and keen erudition
Prophetic Angel, Skytree, the verse of Gibran
Oracle of Day, Holy Moses, rocket of Kahlil

We go to the New Stars, Heavens Reverse
All foretold and Pointed, Reverse Engineered
The Worlds Prepared Before and Inhabited Too
Nothing left to Starve or Bewitch from the Dew
Unfathomable Promise, Time without End,
The Count of Sand or Heather and Mountains Portend

A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go fuck yourself, If you want my dick, you vampire whore
You've had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you'll not get more

Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre's hand and Teller's eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it's wicked feast

The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max's Cubic Rube

The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane

With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It's hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost

From Alabaster bone the Ocean's a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they'd trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot

None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice

'Nevermore' should have been sketched into water by Salvador Dali
Quickly running a message up a high mast in Mali
Or Michaelangelo might have cut a lady less forlorn
With a savior already finished with work and free from scorn
Oddyseus' raft might have hurried home
Had it not been for the Sirens' mercurial foam

Everyman distracted, with each passing year
And epoch of pain pouring tear upon tear
Without discerning the rhyme or the reason
Or gaining knowable time season upon season
Always the lure of fruitless eternity insipid
The body and mind empty: blood, bone and lipid

When fools or king's would rush in where others feared
Bombs fired all around and their people were seared
In jest, a plague of doubt, a feast for Decameron's clowns
In love, the firing flesh of sin falling down
In war, the rage of the people aimed at shadows' night
In peace, moments too few to count, the treasure slight

Wherefore the incessant loss and vainglory
From what source the endless folly
With each generation aimless proceeding
And substantial hope forever receding
How this vague sense of emptiness and sorrow
And no real horizon to fill one's soul tomorrow

Each city above ground falling in on itself
A cascading destruction from the continental shelf [river]
All built upon empty dreams, from false stories past
Or emptied like a dream, when the brain wakes fast
Awake to the shuddering quake of earth below
Or perhaps Earth itself, blowing up in a glow

Just like Rome to fall away at the end of time
to pass the cup, to self-destruct on the vine
From Aeneas came the Trojan horde
Yet he ate his tables instead of fall on his sword
While some chanced Paris instead
Without casting runes or checking their head

To hence or from where it could not matter
On the fat of the lamb each gentile growing fatter
Over the centuries, the meaning of things or remorse
Grew dim and stolid, owning a garden or grooming a horse
With all of the sparkling treasure and treats so kind
None could fathom true nature's curse, or pay it any mind

Running this way and that, in search of some adventure new
The roads ran their course with flatirons the ruts not few
Over hill, mountain, river, valley, flood, glen and dale
To the open sea with long, sandy beaches and cut-up shale
To found a village here or there or town or port to call
Imports to the harbor, markets to open, and stores to maul

With Able's fruit---either high or low--- yielding no good life
The towns looked above to stave away constant strife
With no blossom, the towns built upward to store some treasure
The good ol' boys breaking stocks to gain some measure
Breaking stocks not bread, with yield upon yield
Or bricks into actions, building high away from the fields

And the New Babylon, like F. Scott predicted in prose
Where nothing feels decent or good and nothing ever grows
Has grown higher, perhaps, than even ancient Sumer could
And his books out of print, out of font, are not printed in wood
All that remains of his stories, east egg and west
Are programmers building forms from programs, no longer missed

The lonely feeling of afternoon apperitifs or stiff strong drink
Even the sparklin' ladies in their feather, plush and mink
Soar beyond the lay of the skyline if not the lay of the bed
With nothing but wonder, inclination, nothing but dread
How much emptiness this massive wealth can buy
Without really any curious gal or curious guy

The world's tallest buildings reaching beyond the globe, into 'thereal night
And lights flashing pale towards hovering spacecraft above whose flight
Orbits the continents, oceans, floodplains, and polar caps
When pressing on towards Venus or Neptune will open their flaps
Look outward beyond towards other planets near and far
Within the Solar Domain, and without, to those that set and those that wander

And those astronauts in future, and from before, will never know why they came
to this planet Earth, since---most likely---they have left with nothing less than blame
Blame to exist, exist to blame, never settling here or anywhere
Where the grass is the stars beyond bluer than blue, or crystal stairs
With melted hearts, like sugar lumps, full of air, full of plump
Bumpin' up slow, passin' Dante on the left--or Janice Bishop's rump

And stashed with programs recorded, which condensed on universal files
Will tell them very little of what they don't know and may never know
In this life time or the next ................................................;in this orbit or the next
All the treasure from this Earth loaded up on classical chips, some kind of text
Even the quantum loads with memory mimetic, made to mimic the brane
Will lead you no where's at all, empty, with your mind well past insane

For what else or beyond could be so crazy as to part from this precious earth
Without ever having known it's cost, price, work, measure or stint of worth
And clearly, those who leave, when they leave, will not have known one grain
Of sand or soil, mud or toil: all dusty plows pluming billow-clouds into rain
Run on gasoline or stocks of mules, donkey, horse, or ram, shepperd's hand
Fields from lost fields, turning wheat from grass, rice from blue water land

The mystery of death, growth, and birth still a mystery; life a mere reminiscence
Without any real light here or plant photometry, they will go for luminescence
Imagine leaving this planet without every having known it's rhythm
Going to some other world set in it's own path, it's Keplerian hum
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