Men Made God

"Men may deduce God, all life is but a dream"

These men wake to their own making,
Wading in floods of thought of being;
Caressing the tendernesses of the Universe herself,
Transcending thought and being and tissue.
In touch with something divine,
Something eternally lost in their endless folds;
Founts and valleys of eternal bliss.

They wake to a dream of their own making;
Father's of our heritage.
Creater-men.
Born of things higher than angels in their Spring.

These men put thought to the cosmic plough.
They deduce God in their work-houses.
They mill their thoughts to a very fine powder
And let these strange things into the air we breathe.

At night, they lie with the stars and sing strange mantras.
These are the men we call great.
They put to words much subtle cunning and philosophy,
Edifying themselves a thousand fold with our substance.

It is these men you have created God and put him in his hole
So they can wonder free in all their wild creation.
Passing their eternity in fancy hats and face masks,
Looking to the sun that never sets.
Masons of Babel on the mount Most High,
Priests of Venus in their solemn vigil,
Awaiting the breaking of the Golden Dawn.

Bird

I saw a bird up in the sky,
And wish'd it would be mine.
I hadn't wings with which to fly,
Nor height in my short'nd spine.


I thought to jump off from some cliff;
To soar above the clouds,
But away with such a sorry whiff
'Ere I'ere wrapped up in a shroud.


I was bound on God's good earth;
My angel stuck in the sky,
Whose absence was as endless dearth
Such that I hoped to die.


But death would be a sweet relief
If my bird I could not have.
And better would be't's endless grief
Than mirth without this love.


And so I took my shot gun.
I aim'd at that dear thing.
A halt to Fortune's callous run,
And one last dirge to sing!

To A False Friend

When I,
despised by self and several,
Stand on sanity's brink
Suicidal;
Whipped by a maddened mind,
Force-fed a thousand lies,
I look
Upon your treacherous face,
And feign,
Our white-washed solidarity.
And smile,
At your sardonic quips;
But in my heart
I flinch with ice-cold hate,
And deep within
My soul avers her sole regret;
And slowly I die
To your faint, lying goodness.

When I,
Forced by your blatant mockery
To confront,
My very living shame
And incessant,
You met without prudent restraint
Your murderous
Calls, names, insults, lies and complaints
I see,
What blind goodness did not foresee
And taste,
What heaven inadvertently promised
So I know,
The depths of your wicked ways
And I fashion out,
In all its guises your treacherous heart
So I can stab,
To wound and kill you in your sleep
In my dreams,
To drain your blood from your carcass
And to wake,
As callous to you as ever you were to me!