Of the morning in your visage

Fair unbeliever, thou art for me a wind that does not blow,
a fire that does not burn,
an image that cannot be seen.
You are the offering that refuses,
that will not offer itself.

Fair unbeliever, thou art for me the fear of suffering,
conquered at last by dull-witted tedium,
an ice that does not cool,
a bird that does not sing
unless she means
to miss the key.

Fair unbeliever, thou art for me a pillar of loyalty
held in thrall to undeserving objects.
Thou art green like the apple unripe,
and taste like nothing.
Thy taste is tantamount to thy knowledge of me:
it is nothing.
Still you will not know me.

Fair unbeliever, thou art for me a grayed old picture
of the beauty thou wouldst be
at another age, around some other time:
time unblemished
by thy sweet disbelief.

Such as thou art thou must needs stay
drab as ever.
Sweet is love when love there can be,
when there is substance � paramount to empty air.


From Alien Empire

11

standing on the pandemoplasmodium
a faceless entity surveys the beginning 
of the new age
insectoid invaders from unknown space
swarm in and conquer the living mass of flesh
the lost towers of the underground aristocracy
[now in sight] arise once more
preside over the semi-dead thing
that was called mankind


Paean

inherent contradictions
burst asunder 
feudalism, and an 
ever-expanding machine of fascistic chaos
shudders along the path with a fury
of lubricant
dethroned the icons growl
supernatural reigns of glory exploded
they lay about the floor in fragments
shattered, that famous hope against hope,
she mopes
truly lost amid all of this
she is up the creek
without a paddle