Wednesday, July 11, 2012

7 views of the apocalypse

                Three days of released passions were enough to take this city to its knees
The wild and destructive parties began with drinking and dancing,
                ended when the last gas station was set ablaze.
"Destruction is a form of creation" was our rationale,
               questioning the philosophy marked you as the next sacrifice.
No one minded if one of their loved ones was caught in the blaze
              ("Some losses are inevitable...Not everyone can live to see the glorious dawning future.")

           "Its a tense situation" she said
and I believed her in light of the two cars, mutilated, smoking in front of us.
           "Look the metal's still hot."
           "Mmm" knitted brows.
 A distracted, thoughtful affirmation.
           There were gouges in the concrete before us two inches deep
that acted as an Eshkol-Wachman notation to the prelude of the sculpture before us.
           Two oblique and sweeping marks coming from the north,
three straight marks from the south
           a curious gap separating them.
           Crushed rock falls on my head
listen the ocean speaks with a honeyed voice
           Somewhere a fire is burning, I can feel it within me
when the wind blows our bodies are picked up in dance
           This chasm is as wide as my ignorance
we only need one chance.
           I'm stuck, the mud has wise fingers,
this line thoroughly bisects me.
                                                                                                Now I am multitudinous.
            This dampness, the cave's dampness permeates me fully
what are we but a confluence of holy modulations?
                                                                                                Even your lies are lies.
            Steadily forward! The horizon is glowing.
My breaths are labored, they leave me shattered.         
             Peeking through boughs at gnawed knots of wood
these tulips of ordeal are blooming wildly at our feet
             Chunks of concrete rain down leaving hungry divots in the earth,
giving us good reason to cover our heads.
             "I don't know what you're thinking or what you've seen"
"My own memories just seem to get in the way most times"
              "Tricky bastards, stumbling block before the amnesic"
Phantasmagoric recollection spins me around, misty eyeshade that builds walls and builds wall and builds...
Here's broken wood and its army of splinters
Here's burning herbs and its huge host of sinners
Here's a shattered window pane that's paid my list of wishes
Here's your list of hated names compared to all the winners
           This flag waves mighty in the ever blowing winds
 these winds that touch my ears with a muddled accent and flourish of pine
          These winds that bring back stale thoughts and onerous obsessions
So the grass always trembles, day in and day out submitting to the wind and the will of ash
           Did I mention the burning cities?
          Under the sun a thousand flowers bloom,
soil songs rising in plumes that break at the beck of a radiant body.
          Each shoot is a prayer, each shoot is symbol and sign.
The soil is a sleeping womb and at each pulse breathes cool winds of life into these frail tendons.
           Unseen the waters move with unstoppable force under electric pressure and capillary presence.
Unseen the waters move.


      What a great subject: "Apocalypse". Such an obsession with some, predicted by so many for years yet one has never been witnesses and there is no evidence that anything like an apocalypse will happen for perhaps billions of years. Yet apocalypse IS always around the corner. Is it because every tragedy is a personal apocalypse? An old world collapsing in on itself? Yet with every personal apocalypse a new world forms. A literature founded on mortality and fear.

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