A Rusty Knife

Cool little blessed teddy bears
A million little blessed teddy bears
Come to the sundown ritual
Bring your spotless goldfish, just put him in a jar
And gather at the foot of the mountain
Where fools perish and prophets hide

Now my mind's gone blank as it is sometimes wont to do
I forgot everything you've said right after you said it
And it frightens me but what else can a man do?
Price to pay, eh chap?
A trollop dropped a wall-full of bricks and made an awful divide
Betwixt the things I don't remember and the fine line which sunders in two
Knowing and not knowing
Being and not being
Thinking and not thinking
Living but not living.
Dying but not dying.
Betwixt the things I don't remember
And the things I can't forget

You seem very disappointed that I will not attempt to describe the way these episodes feel, what's going on in my mind, how I perceive "reality", it's purpose, the fleeting nature of the whole damn thing.

I am genuinely sorry for that state of affairs, but alas, what power doth mortal man hold to fuck around with the hands of time, to try to tie them behind his back. I reserve the right to keep my mouth shut and set out to do a shaker's dance. Just out behind the church, right front of the out house. Cross that field of flowers, crushing the lucky ones, and meet me, that's what it was all about, mister, you've got no idea, and furthermore, we weren't even shakers, only two kids too young to be messed up yet. So little of it survives in my memory. I can't even remember who she was. Or what she looked like, even. I only know that the cold steel of the blade she had hidden in her "Sunday Best" skirt was the most painful thing I've ever felt in my life.

It was a sharp blade. But old. Rust stuck to it and black dirty from all the blood shed carnage clinging to the hard metal. A knife infinitely more painful than a clean, sharp-edged sword.

Okay...give me a moment...

What was all that? I seem to have wondered off
Did you say
Something about shakers?
Or did you say quakers?
Soul Shakers and Earth Quakers

Could it actually be
Thor
Who crashes his camera
He hasn't a hammer
The flash is a freaky thing
It sticks to the back of the eyelid
It burns and it burns and it burns
Thor, is that you?
If it is...stop, please o magnificent god of thunder
cease from this mental torture you inflict
Upon one only humble
Your disregard for me saddens and discourages
I've worshiped you, Thor
I've brought burnt offerings to you
The spotless lamb, a pail for the blood
A pail for the blood
A pail for the blood
This suffering must come to an end
I'll take the rusty sword that brought me here
And slice the beast's neck
And hold it above, let it drain like a fountain
A pail for the blood
So, Thor, look down and consider your worthy servant
Mighty Thor, Manipulator of Gods
Trust me, if I thought I could
I would once more wield my dirty blade
...if I ever thought that this very blade had power to slay deity...
I would thrust it deep into your guts, below the heart, so that the blade would rip hard and dull when I yank it up and cut in half the organ that pumped blood through your useless veins.
Laughing, beaming

"Burn"

I'd just as soon burn it
If it's all the same to you
It's grown cold
A fire would do us some good
I don't think it's of much use
For anything else
You got a lighter?

Burn it

I don't want to be Plath's latest disciple
I don't really want to sing Ian's song
But I reach into the cauldron
And all I pull out
Mud covered sentiment
Blood bourne transcendence
Conscience overlaid with fat
Disgusted with what it's come to
Wanting nothing more
Than to offer up something clean
Something beautiful
That would make you smile
That would make me happy
Oh yes, it would
I hate to accept the truth
Though it was none of my doing
Still I must confess it as my own
I would keep it to stagnate
If it didn't burn
If it didn't burn a hole in me
So I hunt for leeches
In the murky bog, the scum-topped swamp
From which I pull out all of these thoughts
To suck words like blood
In hopes that a few of them
Might make someone consider
.....

Wobbling Buddha

Dirty, wobbling Buddha
I think you may have cursed me
With your eyes closed
Picking at a chronic scab
Delicately placing the detritus
Into your mouth
Ha!
You didn't think I saw you do that
Did you?
Pissed you off
Didn't I?
A wave of the hand, a well-worn expletive
And I'm dismissed

Smoking, hacking gargoyle
Glued to your grimy floor
Staring at me through tight squinted eyes
Damning each and every
Soul you've ever known
Have I been convinced
That I am exactly like you?
Or that you can send me to hell?
I think you may already have

A wave of the hand, a well-worn expletive
I'm down in the hole

But one thing must be said:
You have a wonderful collection of dolls
Every peach pink pucker-lipped face
Stares blindly
Lined up in rows on shelves
In an unused room
Their feet scuffed with black tar
Little silk dresses torn
Or naked
Nude plastic
Unashamed toys
Five gates, uncaring
Five doors, barred forever
Heads filled with air

Still they feel more than you
Still they feel more than you
Do

From the Other Side, Disbelieving

You should know
I want you to know that
I don't fear you
Your wizard's tongue
At the service of your whim
Sculpts pointed gibberish to
Hurl in my direction

It's not that I don't believe
Who can tell?
It's your universe anyway
After all
But while I am stuck in it
You should know
I am not afraid

You would stretch and fold
Circumstances
Manipulate and tie
The strings of time
You would gather unto yourself
Places, shapes, things, the weak ones
You would smash them, meld them together
Mix them with spirit
To make clay
Even now you shiver with bliss
At the thought
Of molding it
With your charmed hands
Into your own image

Because you are in love
With the idea, the possibility
Power for you, the true weakling
To hold you up, for a crutch
In the slitting light of truth
And give some kind of meaning
To your reason, your witch's spell reality

No, I do not fear you
I only wanted you to know
That
When you judge
The distance
and
The time
I will place between us