Song of the Song

The hand writes the words,
but the soul sings the song,
lyric upon lyric
from a honey-drenched tongue.
And when the fires burn low
on the hearth in the night,
may the honeyed lips warm the bones
against the cruel winter’s blight.

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Carcosa #2

Take off your mask that
all may see the
worm-face, long obscured

by centuries, by destruction,
by winds and waves, by
things unseen,

the marks of millenia
between the cracks.
Loose every withered

finger of your ragged hand,
reaching from the
dark of a forgotten past,

to cast a double shadow
in the shifting sands
beneath the rising double sun.

Carcosa #1

When silence fills the empty space,
there is only memory of what once was.
The heights of the towers
and the lowness of the hovels,
masking the thing that remains unseen.

The tines are made by the spinning
     gears,
hooking the shards of memory in place,
a sharpness that remains
and a hardness that won’t soften
as the pieces of thought linger.

A place of birth where I was made
and knitted together by what was.
A memory living as place and form,
always as strong as it ever was,
as unshakeable as it ever was.

Hands, Glistening

We’ve set in our hands
the tomes we need for our learning,
but while the thoughts are glistening
on the altarblocks where no one listens,
the cinder-world is turning, turning.

All hands, mangled, withered,
falling and sawing into rhythm,
one into the other, writhing, biding time
until the hand-over-hand, one-up
for another is the essence of the
     damned.

Smile for me now, all who keep watch,
and smile for the hours in which we
     pay.
A ragged for a wretch and a penny
for no thoughts.  Watch, now, smilers,
and all will be decay, decay.