Tag Archives: prayer

Eludine

Our shelters are all living things
I feel the mortar tremble
Pressure cracks like spider webs
With you at the center reeling me in…

~*~

Tremble, tremble

Minds at the crucible

Solely unforgiving

Now giving in to milder

Disciples, and again

.

Convictions falter

Against the beaks of a

Wake of starving vultures

Salvaged without prayer

Expendable, and again

~*~

The locks on this vault
I’ve pushed inside begin to rust
And if it breaks I’m spilling out
Like the needle thread
Through empty trust…

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Beacon

I shall hold you steadfast by the dim of the lamplight

The maelstrom roars its fury, lashing and beating against stone

Shaking the very foundations that brought centuries to atone

.

Knees, collapsing; hands, clasped tightly together in collective prayer

Watery eyes gazing obstinately against the dying of the distant drumlins

But our kerosene hearts will burn out beyond the call of inimical rain

I shall hold you steadfast by the dim of the lamplight

Though it flickers and falters slow, and threatens to fall victim to the wind

And every hourly vigil only brings the hurricane closer to our doorstep

.

Knees, locked firmly; hands, draping crossed against our gossamer ribs

Let the windows rattle, let the midnight howl, and the floods be unleashed

For tomorrow morning, our lamp will grow cold as the sun finally greets us beneath.

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Belial

I will defend that we are the vanquished
And you will not make our decisions
I won’t pretend that I’m not a victim
Of a world that will not listen
They will fall, nothing that I can’t overcome…

~*~

Rise from your grave

And save yourself

The angels won’t miss

A blurry little detail

.

Devour their promise

Crushed fingers lift

From another prayer

That you sent back to hell

.

They will all thank you

Someday, you think boastfully—

But for now we’re content

Cursing you back to your death.

~*~

Conquer the battles one by one
Crushing the head of what’s become
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs…

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if there’s a god, he doesn’t have time for my bullshit

Take the pain
Make it billboard big and swallow it for me
Time capsule for the future
Trust me, that’s what I will be
Oh, the things that you do in the name
Of what you love

You are doomed but just enough…

~*~

i’m just so sick of faith

being forced down my throat

like it’s a mandatory responsibility

i may as well be tasting tax bills

but even then, at least i know

that the former is concrete, instead

of blindly fumbling for my hands as

i clasp the scapular and mumble

memorised prayers that i grew tired of

in another dead lifetime ago

because if i have to starve for days

and cut myself open just to enter heaven,

then why do they tell me it’s the devil’s fault?

isn’t that what i’m doing, anyway?

and what’s the fucking point of paradise?

Yes, the norms and dictations were all fun and

amusing when i was a wide-eyed child

so malleable, curious, and foolish enough to believe in

santa claus and the tooth fairy and tall tales

and believing whatever people told me was true

because i couldn’t construct my own reality back then

but now i’m older (one may contradict that

i’m not *that* old, but if my family says i’m old

enough to have to go through this bullshit, then that’s

adequately old enough for me, thanks very much)

and i’m wornout and jaded and tired and have

gone through not a lot, but just enough to lose the beliefs

that have done nothing good or beneficial for me

because all the saints and the promises of salvation

couldn’t make my eyes fall shut every night

and keep them wide open every morning,

day in and day out, over and over and over again.

i may as well be wishing quiet little whims every 11:11

or plucking lucky four-leaf clovers from grass

for whatever faith that’s worth anchoring myself onto.

Now, i know to keep my mouth shut and respect their faiths

but just don’t fucking cram all of it down my throat

like it’s my responsibility to be a good child,

to feel sorry for my sins and stay away from hell…

because if i live in a world like this, just how bad can that be?

~*~

And it’s getting hard to know what’s real
And if death is the last appointment
Then we’re all just sitting in the waiting room
I am just a human trying to avoid my certain doom…

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six days of a kingdom’s downfall; excluding the sabbatical

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword and shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can’t explain
I know Saint Peter won’t call my name
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world…

~*~

i.

a carnation affectation

a wilted dahlia efflorescent

in the temple about to fall—

ii.

redemption in the fray

a sovereign right surrendered

a prayer lost to the demons.

iii.

who would i be if i failed

these chevalier discrepancies

and gave to defeat my all?

iv.

‘tis nothing but a feint allusion

a fiery sleight of hand with which

even archangels cannot summon…

v.

night cries; a knight is interred,

remains scattered to eventide mourn

and ashes buried under dungeons.

vi.

baleful messengers cease to return

as the crown is abandoned in rusted thrones

towers and castles—and a legacy long gone.

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The Blessed and the Blasphemy

The world’s not fucking built of saints

Only gilded tongues and corrupted eyes

The infected castigating the fellow taint

And floral-laden verses dripping of lies

.

Persecution is just another word for purge

Heaven’s open, but first we have to grovel

If I wanted sanctimony, I would go to church

Instead of listening to this tormenting drivel

.

If they listen to prayer, then I pray that you’ll stop

Holy shit, this pious virtuousness makes me laugh

I don’t mean to be crass, but these words mean bullshit

We don’t have time for compelling, get damn used to it

.

I’m not an atheist, but I just don’t believe in playing god

And if they’re here to preach some more, then hell can take me back

I don’t condemn beliefs, just don’t force it down my throat

Because I won’t enjoy the taste—I will just bring it back up and choke.

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fringe

Your face in the glass, and it’s dark now
It was just a laugh, it was just a laugh
It’s whatever you say it is, split infinite…

~*~

a face in

broken glass

a murmur

in the darkness

a prayer in

the shallow sky

sane is lost

to all the madness.

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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Sweet Halo

Oh, sweet halo

Come back to me

The angels cry still

For an eternity

Oh, sweet halo

Return to the light

The demons hath killed

Bring me back to life.

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From Cathedral Confessionals To Vacant Motel Rooms

Give us this day our daily dose
Of faux affliction, forgive our sins
Forged at the pulpit with forked tongues
Selling faux sermons, cause I am a new wave
Gospel sharp, and you’ll be thy witness
So gentlemen, if you’re gonna preach
For God’s sake, preach with conviction!

~*~

Prayers at the pulpit, wasted sunlight stalked in grey

Cunning trick and guileful guilt trip theatrics at play

Cavalier coronary effusion, witnesses plead the fifth

The parish resident contradicts, as all the crosses lift

.

Glory conceived in savage strokes of bloodied wines

My conviction is an eviction, tell a jury lies this time

Plagued with gunslingers, spinsters, character shady

Debonair diner apparels, wrinkled trousers, humility

.

The constabulary and congregation condemned revolt

My empirical altruism’s the new cancer, neglect faults

Burlesque shame accentuating formaldehyde intimacy

Asbestos lips, flimsy camisole fumbled simultaneously

.

Tenant engaged medical malpractice, his landlord buys

Epileptic gloating and impertinence, furlough play nice

Sartorial sarcasm and wills held against the desperation

Divorcees eavesdrop on prudent prudes, commiseration

.

Perfumes and newspaper advertisements crying of weddings

Massacring a breathalyser, scotch in prefaced elevator scenes

A paperback syndication concealing secret wretched incident

The allegations made by schizophrenics held to be significant.

~*~

Strike up the band! Whoa-oh, the conductor is beckoning
Come congregation, let’s sing it like you mean it
No, don’t you get it, don’t you get it? Now don’t you move
Just stay where I can see you, douse the lights!

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