conversations with the cleric of quiet calamity

“and now it’s done” he said
living like this at 6am
stiff neck and dry eyes
how do we continue to endure

forgive this burning light
art can only sustain us so long
and the night has it’s own
charms and terrors
as saintly stars
are muddled by a mistress moon

“all we have are
deluxe madnesses
wrapped in fertile
and fragile narratives”

black cat,
white dog
wandering outdated empires
the future is a conspiracy,
a creeping frequency
waiting for graveyard guns
to salute these seasonal spies

drinking wine
and teasing passion
wet, with silent and graceful steps
we are mysterious and
written on bodies
of naked intent
waiting once again
for the first time
to shatter temples
of singular serenity

caricature of a war alias
pause before the trial,
anticipate conquest
as you embrace the spirit
of playful resistance
and then subdued,
lying still in the arms of defeat,
a minute of smooth nothingness

life is short
and the song always ends the same
ecstatic in the glow of
permanent
and bottomless
beer driven fantasies
these nights are littered
with tired rituals
and there’s really no rest
as
soft heats stutter
in an empty gutter
while fools chase
an eternal serpent

staring at love,
released in dusty grandeur
the feral whispers
of blind barbarians
remind us
of a soulless peace

forget this poet parasite,
summers fade
as words guide the blade
and we aimlessly search
for another elusive moment of truth

“all we have
is chaos and stability,
snapshots of tragedy and victory
in this comedy of seers”

he was a good man
somewhat sad
and dead
before his time

447-conversations-with-the-cleric-of-quiet-calamity

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