Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Kyrie, Eleison

Been reading through Job in the Bible lately, and just been astounded by how grim it is. Not my first time through, but its depressing tone and extremely "doom metal" ambience still left me reeling. I had to write something on that.

Kyrie, Eleison

Dawn saw the fleets of fleeing shadows
leave her this heap of flesh.
She quailed to claim it with daylight.
Even the sun shudders from its arc,
wishes to lid its molten eye
with drifting, laden blindfolds.

This canker dressed in ashes.
This blight of corroding tissue.
This living maggot banquet;
Job, losing himself by the mouthful,
more wont of necropolitan haunts
and the denizens they house.

An earthenware edge,
boasting the guillotine’s bark,
dribbling its skimmings of blood and skin
between fingers scabbed with resolve.
And into the sky this abscessed effigy
coughs such accosted plumes
as to darken its azure temperament,
verbalizing the vista-spied cries transcribed
in Dante’s scrawling.

The arrows of the Almighty
are in me;
my spirit drinks their poison,
                                             he howls into the wind,
                                    the blood of ten buried children
                               peeking through two grief-gnawn lips.
My life is a breath;
my eye will never again see good.
                                                       He wears the dust like carrion.
I loathe my life.
                                                       Dusk casts him in isolation.
Oh, that I might have my request—
                                                          Sand vies with hungry larvae
                                                          for position in his sores,
and that God would fulfill my hope—
                                                           crusting vermilion sap
                                              on a flesh-dredging shard,
that it would please God—
                                            inscribing his laments
                                            between the craquelure of old palms,
to crush me and cut me off!
                                             a gravitational woe
                                    pins him languid and prostrate,
                               a man-skin rug sundered
                           by a holy void that smote Christ on His cross,
I loathe my life…

and yet,
in the bowels of despair,
his eyes still tilt two sky-filled wells,
plumbing Heaven for the God
he loves, knows, and trusts.

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