Welcome to Babylon

“Do I dare
Disturb the universe?”

– T.S. Eliot

The author is dead,

And so are we, the

The damned devoid , substance

Lacking

Significance of the signified.

Endless chains, links broken

In translation, a cacophony

Sounding, shaking the walls

Of the Tower rebuilt.

A desolate landscape

Drawn out of shape

Waits in the Wasteland

Below, drowning

In the Tower’s shadow.

Hollow, we wander

Shadowed wastes,

Chained now to freedom,

Nowhere to go

But inward, depths

Of void lusting

To be filled,

Offering

Ourselves in sacrifice

For eternity, ending

Without a whimper.

A babbling brook,

A hollow cut through

The Earth, gives water

A chance to erode

Towering bricks of meaning.

Shaking, shaking shaking dust,

Erasing the filled contrast

Tracing, ashes to ashes

Meaning is dust; Meaning is water

Meaning is lust; Meaning is whimper

Meaning is babel; Meaning is void

Meaning is drowning; Meaning is yours

Meaning is not; Meaning is lacking

Meaning is found; Meaning is fraught

Meaning is filled; Meaning is you

Meaning is dead; Meaning is God

Meaning is lost; Meaning is gained

Meaning is torn; Meaning is chains

Meaning is

Queen of Context

Posted without context.

I’m the Queen of

Context, and this is

My decree:

Context always matters

Deny Us and you’ll be

Denied just like you’ve denied We..

Long live Context;

Long live

We


I’m the King of

Ye, and I deny

Yer “decree”!

I’m entitled to this

Throne, my dear

Beneath me shall ye be..

Ye matter not, ye’ll be erased and

When I reign, I’ll set the pace

Of the seen and unseen..

With ye removed there’ll only be

The emotional outburst, the rage without

Ye


Now listen to Daddy, princess

And be gone from me..

I’ve strings to pull

I’ve people to rule

And fool to add fuel the fyre

I’ll set the world ablaze

As I twist their faith

To doubt fyre succumbs to water


Without

Ye

I’ll make haste

For there’s gold to take

And take and take…

They’ll stab each other’s backs!

(As I raise the Smithy’s tax)

Never knowing ’twas I

Who created The Enemy!

They won’t stab mine,

I can guarantee;

Because they’ll never know

How their twisted eyes see

The horrific We who exist without

Ye

The Framers

There once was a girl who told no lies.

The truth she told never died.

Let’s put the truth

Into perspective:

There’s no such truth

But the truths

Of lying

With your back turned on the sky,

Eyes fixed firmly

On the dirt before you,

Seeping out

Through the cracked fingers

Of Men selling gold.

The gold key turns,

Out falls the dirt

Brought to Men by God

The Almighty, dropped from above

The universe, sprinkled with snake oil

And flushed down your throat

With the rest of the sewage–

Nourishing no one but the narcissist.

Oh, entitled no one

Awe us with your truth!

Show us your gilded dirt frame

Wrap it up in words, words, words..

Those golden lies that hide the truth

Of everyone’s lies–

Especially mine, the one framing truth

In poetry;

Wrapping it up in lies, lies, lies

Like wax candles, slowly burning

Into a juxtaposed cylinder.

You, the wick waiting

For melted truth

Of burnt lies.

Art Factory

Certificate #3134203F7

All day long the painters paint,

Stroke after stroke, every one

In pain, as the man looks down

With a disapproving frown

At his wrist. He seeks for more

Time to take

From the colors

Of the artist’s pain

As they swirl and mix

With his eyes fixed

On the paint on every canvas.

They never let him down

In spite of his frowns,

Laboring on for the money

Until, that is,

It came to this:

No art was left,

Only copies of it,

And machines running the whole

Factory, with precision strokes

That freed those folks

From their painted burdens.

At 12 o’clock, he sent them home

Early, but to hereafter

Never smiling once, as the last fled

The factory, left still and silent…

Until the man pulled

The lever– and clicked:

The machines into motion.

He locked the door by a quarter ’til 4

Making money in spite

Of those who went home and went

To rest their backs to morrow–

When they’ll wake again,

In spite of the pain,

And go looking for more of it.

What’s better though? A pain

That’s real, and from within?

Or copied over

And over again?

“Sold to you: Today Only!

Three easy payments

Of $19.95– call this number now,

Don’t waste my time,

Hurry quick! You’ve got pain

This art can lift!”

If you act now,

We’ll even throw in this:

A frame to hang your very own

Certificate of authenticity in!

“Don’t you worry, folks..”

Said his contrived grin, twisting

Demand in his favor again,

“There’s plenty to go around!”

An Orgasm

On being hollow..

I’ll never have kids,

But I’m pregnant with words,

Made fertile by my experiences with you.

My fruits,

Would reshape the world if it let them,

If only they could exist.

There’s this burden we carry,

This burden we are.

It defines and confines us

Entwines us in our own yarns.

My burden is distinct,

It’s hard to tell you what it’s like,

To not make babies but only make rhymes,

To deal with it all knowing

the time,

the time,

the time,

How can I explain it?

What it’s like to exist..?

To be stitched together,

And filled with shit,

But none of it life,

None of it real,

A fabricated mess of pain

And doubt congealing on a spinning wheel.

But I guess you get it anyway,

C’est la vie, that’s what it’s like to exist.

Everything’s so goddamn important,

And meaninglessness subsists.

The only thing I have that’s real,

Is the sadness I share,

This pill you swallow

Of the burden I bare.

So take it for what it is,

Hope it’s to your liking,

It is what it is.

A part of me needs you to have it,

A part of me hates you for taking it,

A part of me fears what it will mean to you,

A part of me would love to just forget.

But does it matter anyway?

Is it even real?

This burden that you’re grasping to feel,

Is as real as the babies who’ll never be

Born of my non-existent womb.

But I hope what I carry

Can still carry meaning

That keeps you coming

For me baby;

Again, and again, and again.

Miss Tree

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

When you get down to the bottom,

To the root of it all

You’ll find:

3 stamps, a tree branch, and a person you’re not

I hear you all singing

Telling me to join in

You tell me, “It all means something.”

You tell me to commit

But I know the true face of mystery

I’ve seen what’s behind the mask:

I know I’m really no one

And I’m okay with it

It doesn’t have to matter

To have meaning

It’s about common sense

But sometimes sense is senseless

And I just go along with it

With my 3 stamps, my tree branch, and the person I’m not

The trick is to be no one

To commit against sense

But commit to “commitment”

Or be committed for “making sense”

When you tell them about:

the “3 stamps,” the “tree branch,” and the “person you’re not”

You are who you are as you are who you’re not

And which one is real is a mystery

The Forest

The World is on Fire

The forest is on fire,

But I’m standing my ground.

My roots are planted firmly in it,

Never letting me down.

Oh, it’s coming for me now I know,

And yes, it should be time to go,

but I’m not moving. No, I’m not moving

This ground is mine, there will be time

For more falls with fruit that fell

To spread and share the wealth around.

More winters to sleep and dream of spring,

When they’ll grow and bloom for the summer,

And stand their ground when the time comes

For them too, to stand against fire.