blood poems for an October Scorpio Moon

they bring on pain and want to share it all around, make one big hurt.
This is the pain of the sins of the forefathers,
the founding fathers,
the captains of industry,
the capitalist barons and kings.
It is the painful tightening of nooses and stirrups,
the calculating cackling of Nazgul riding high on misery.
Taste the pain.
Savor the flow of blood from damaged hearts,
wounds of battle,
beggars kicked into oblivion on darkened streets,
excessive violence.
Pain is, after all, the great motivator.
Grind them all into a massive meatball,
cover with condiments extracted from the Earth,
this is the wealth that is worth
every sacrifice.
 …
Early learning cast the play of we and they.
Blood, bone, face
is not man, soil intent on destiny.
Shadow marketeers sell swords, honour,
blessings to follow the faith as good fathers demand.
Soft blood dries — throes of maggots and microbes
cunningly feast on folly.
Can the wage of war pay to feed our habit?
Vegetation of these mythic forests grows
twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers.
Smell terror, violent death —
fresh meat, or fresh enough for remnant
gnashed snarls of teeth and salivation.
Lullabies drenched in sweet hope
snapped for a dream.
 …
Seeking for the power of wisdom
Multiple paths converge on star points
Pierced by light, taste of blood in darkness
Feed on what feeds your blossoming
 …
I am inspired by anger engorging my blood-brain barrier
by symphonies of guilt and shame and hope
by simple positionings glimpsed from roving eyes by lightening,
darkening, liminal desires,
by brave warriors who cope with more than could be required
and the songs my silent ear demands I hear
 …
It is foolishness to think that paradigm-wrecking change will not inflict pain. 
Perhaps it would be better if the shift would just Poof! —
all the trauma and bloodshed washed up at once
into it horrific tableau, then Enlightenment! 
I don’t think it can work that way. 
Mostly we seem to not be inclined to any major changes
without being so miserable that we see no other option. 
I am emphatically not “for” this; but it seems to be so,
beyond my ability to control.
 …
Do not struggle with anger, my son
Give in to the luxury of ire and woe
Dance to the music of bloodlust, fire, passion
Avenge the angst of life’s attractions
Get caught up in the lava flow,
burning to spend and leap without reserve
Then, in sweet afterglow, in mild day’s reflection,
take in the view of battlelands subdued.
In this fading light, this waning Sun,
aftermath of action,
take time and patience,
eye of storm,
tongue of meditation,
clear mind of wisdom to wish.
 .
.
.
Not a Lucid Dream
.
 .
She is not some willowy fragile damsel Queen
waiting for champions to compete
for her hand.
She is not grand, Imperious.
Not more than a child, yet strong of will,
of purpose.
She sings herself to sleep,
deep lullabies enticing
prophetic dreams.
Potent streams of consciousness
offer drenching
hydration.
To drown, to release all pretense,
to surrender to fate —
or collaborate in adventure.
It takes a Queen to drink
from the sacred cup, to
read the trails of sludge,
to answer.
She heeds the call,
heals her aching wound,
hears soft moisture mark her path.
Cracking ice, spelling runes,
guide, sprite luminous shades.
Wavery arms, blue ectoplasm,
trace salutations.
This is not lucid dreaming.
This is the sign promised.
Taste the frozen blood;
know its story, sharp, shining.
Live the legend,
even when
it is furthest from your mind.
 .
 .
 .
At the edge of the real
At the plummet of denial
At the summit of all we pretend
Re-echoing ecstasy crescendo
No where to discover again
Drunk on this neverending run
To the End
 .
 .
 .
Doorway into Scorpionic revelation — severe, profound, grabs from beneath the conscious realm.
.
 .
 .
Drunk on koolaid.
Sputter junkie cultural jargon —
a separate, unequal, reality
you choose.
Soggy comfort of misery.
Slobby, whiney;
lobbing fouled barbs to amuse.
Cheap deterioration,
failure explained:
Not mine!  The way of the world.
Ascertain blame by direction
in which orator’s stones are hurled.
Can’t look back, or around
to track the blood on the ground.
Life seeps in pain.
Drunk in a pool of despair.
Left to sleep, unaware,
drowning in caustic rain.
 .
 .
 .
Study War No More
 .
.
What lesson can be applied?
When imperialist troops crash down upon a people’s pride?
When might as right meets the instinct to survive?
When Midas greed lashes out to destroy?
We’ve been here before, o my brethren, o my children —
repeating the fouled lessons poured into our thirsty minds,
pushing back the horror before our eyes with blinding rage
forged into weapons by mortal foes
who hide in plain sight.
The only thing I know —
The lesson repeating agony in all our souls,
Haunted by the pleading eyes and bloody hearts
Of the slaughtered sacrifices to malignant gods —
There is something vital here to learn.
 .
 .
 .
unsound
.
.
I have no words
no Earthly limitations
imploded aggravation applies
bloody bolts of magma impale my eyes
you wisely sidle past, mouth aghast,
while my presence lasts
I never doubted
your indifference
Out here, in space beyond
no one listens
 .
 .
 .
sickly, fever vision
slow to remember action
whining in a corner
never seeing the Archer
guiding or the rainbow
calling from that window
We once called to vision
cry to see your anger
pitiful and collared
primped in cold and silver
Who are we to mourn you?
So reviled and tattered
that our vision barely sees us
We hope as if that mattered
retreat in pleasant manners
and expect you to believe
in some envisioned chance of promise
not destined to lie broken
trod upon by wrathful demons
drunk on hate and blood
 .
 .
 .
maybe this is the fantasy world where businesses become our greedy robot overlords, squeezing out our blood and guts and leaving the excrement for our sustenance.
.
 .
 .
Cross Purpose
 .
 .
At time’s crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, pain,
radiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Taken from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right.  They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, our race divided
along strict lines, by difference
nature instilled to make us strong
 .
 .
 .
Nature Cure
 .
 .
The wild has been bred out of us.
We are city creatures now.
Citizens of common culture
down graded along the main stream,
abraded to fit
today’s fashion,
to fit the form.
Wild dreams tug deep,
feed bloodlines unappeased,
misnamed disease.
 .
 .
.
Spring Fever
 .
 .
Such a psychotic mess
Such a mood slave
Prickly dendrites, echoes of abandoned lives.
Voiceless words compel, demand hearing.
Why do they beg at my door, cloying, whining,
grabbing at my eyes with scarring claws?
I who possess only obsessed carvings of dried blood,
only curdled nightmares where I’ve lost my way,
lost the thread that was to sew me whole.
Shiny coins twinkle, fit so comfortingly in
cyborg skin’s mechanical slot.
Brite tinkly musical phrases effervesce.
Beautiful, hungry dancers consume,
piranhic bliss.
No magical kiss, no fated lover to heal
and carry me home.
My gifts spurned or derided for their
inexcusable tackiness, stinking with mold
and decay, cannot pay any price.
Mock, if you must for warmth.
I curl against entropy into a trashed
cardboard box of stale air.
 .
 .
 .
metawakening
.
 .
Sharal the Hunter runs from the Warrior of Destruction. 
She has lost all honor, all reason, all possessions but the skins that cover her.
Her village burns, all she has known forever ashes.
This ought to be a nightmare.
Here, now, it is horribly … overwhelming.
Heart, blood, breath, these are what matter understands.
Mind is elsewhere.  It has screamed into submission, reptilian —
Heart, blood, breath.
 .
Terror reverberates
shakes tree limbs, wavers
vision.  Terror waits ahead.
Grabbing strength enough to veer,
steer clear,
running thoughtless through loss,
unafraid of the unexpected, uncharted,
new.
Unencumbered by old terrors,
expectations.
Ready by necessity to make do,
to start from simplest principles.
Who am I, today?
Tomorrow will take care
of itself.
 .
 .
 .
oracle
 .
 .
Dusty bones
buried in sand of ages
carried from days when sacrifice was still fresh,
still blood.
I carried you, sank into shifting sand,
drank your blood, or you mine
to keep us, to bind in eternal compromise
scythe of death, scythe of fulfillment.
Bones shatter,
scatter into oracular arrangement.
The days don’t end.
They carry into Sunset
oracular bones, dust, coagulating blood
possibilities not yet desired.
 …
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