Mother Melancholia

Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome

(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)

Generation Catacomb!

WE utter tumors of blood.

For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains

It was there I had seen him first.  An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.

 

Than…

Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold.  Obliging, as a casserole.  She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.

Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.

Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.

Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.

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I protest to this embankment,

The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!

No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed.  No matter the vials for your smiles.  A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon.  Crimson waters will punish your passageway.

..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.

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a Bridge too Close

He knew of the nature of seed.

He knew not of the nature of others.

The pining echoes.

Traversing nearby hollows.

Winter berries that please.

Winter berries which impede.

He understood rugged instinct.

What a world to master as a, young man?

Cold thick waters…

a laundry

or

a bath?

He learned to feed the fire.

While…

He accepted little of fire’s desire.

Fractured Like Me

Angry tears rain upon abandon houses.

It is here comfort feels at home…most.

Ghastly stairwells replace stubbed toes.

Eerie bulkheads surrounded with infected weeds replaced by the belt and the knee.

Heroic crosses dressed in blood replaced by screams louder than nothingness.

What is not replaced…

The uneven sunrises and the awkward sunsets.

Cannot you see,

‘they are fractured just like me.’

Fragments and figments of is left…

these are the buildings…

these are the visions…

that understand me best.

 

If Winter Calls

“If winter calls should I answer?”  mother had asked.

Her words such as peeled back bark.

Earthy and sublime, a slow pouring wine.

The volume of her sentences were never said…in moderation.

It is four in the morning and I am awoken to hanging on.

What ground had just been broken?imageedit_1_9514658845

How many more sleepless black and white moments, sullen and justified, would this go on?

Ashen, Irish, ashes all that was left in the morning.

When memories woke up.

Hey Mama

“Hey, mama, it’s me!”

Said, “you better wait child!

Said, “you’ve been a long time running!”

“Hey, mama, answer me!”

“Baby boy, you better sit down…Can’t listen when the sun’s out!  My only son this will be so hard to hear.”

“C’mon mama, what do you mean?”

I know you’ve been knocked down.

I know it ain’t been easy.

Nothing ever good really is.

Why you gotta wait so long?

But she said son,

“Let me reason with you.  You think you carry such a weight?

I know I never beat you boy.  Better start acting like this here’s…a race.”

“You ain’t gone far enough to say, at least I tried.

You ain’t worked hard enough to say, well I’ve done mine.

You ain’t run far enough to say, my legs have failed.

You ain’t worked hard enough.  You ain’t run far enough to say…’it ain’t gonna get any better.”

“You picked a bad time
You picked a bad time to listen to me!”

Nathaniel Rateliff