~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XXXIII~
By WordWulf, 13th Apr 2011 | Follow this author
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Posted in WikinutWritingShort Stories
~ horses ~ givers of guilt ~ great bags of gold ~ Jim Morrison ~ brown, sweet through ~ oozing gold, lusting ~ Nietzsche ~ I have stayed a child while I have watched your world grow up ~ Charles Manson ~ the stars never rise but I feel your bright eyes ~ Poe ~ no living thing should ever be caged ~ slain possibly but never caged ~ WW ~
~Black Star~
Momma, Momma, make a place for me. I’m tired of fighting and I...
I’m not ready, ready to sing my winter song, been too damned long, just long enough for me to see. Momma, Momma, I see everything.
There’s a big black star in the center of the oceans, deepest dark and gravity, where the last whale will go to die. Momma, Momma, there’s a grown man cryin’.
Make a prayer if you come to see vacant eyed prisoners, the gallery of lost hope, spirits afire. Pray for me, Momma, I’m a mouth in the choir.
There’s a big black hole in the middle of the earth, deepest dark and gravity, where the last wolf will go to die. Momma, Momma, it’s a zoo inside.
Look into the eyes of the great black ape. Its tears are real, the way it feels. Its naked soul, pit of shame, guiltless pawn to the zoo game.
~Dawn Reaches~
We are better than we once were, not near as good as we should have been. Pathetic results of a mother’s sins, unto the earth do we begin.
We have not embraced the far reaches of dawn, mystery of centuries, yet we represent and are complicit in what they have become.
Do you sense earth’s rivers in the coursing of your blood, feel the vastness of its skies in the moonbeams of your eyes, taste the warmth of the sun, hot upon your flesh, suckling nipple, our Earth Mother’s breast.
The clamps of civilization hold the wild animal, us in a cage constructed of our indifference, ignorant bliss, unaware each of the others, the others of one, until there are many. The many are none.
These eyes have spoken. The ice is broken, white and liquid blue goo pouring down the frozen landscape, exit seeking passage through. Momma, Momma, what should we do?
We are sightless dogs, teeth gnashing in rabid frenzy, frothing at the mouth, lips bared in lupine snarling ecstasy and agony in the dark bright sight of no light, tight canyon, short circle of our tether.
Dripping fangs tear. They part the air. It becomes what air is not, stinking rancid breath of breathing death, poison caught in smoking dreams, nuclear melting pot.
This book is a dark look, a chronicle of untruthful experience, the evil art of weaving expendable lies.
Momma, Momma, my voice is deep, the holes I creep are worm-infested tunnels infecting the brain children of my uncertain device.
~Shaman Aflame~
Some are born to the danse, three-legged and lost, fairly stumbling, backing into corners of finite circles. They become log jams of sad-eyed jesters, cavorting fools, unimportant and unnecessary, replaced before they begin to matter.
Whom walks amongst trees speaking into the mouths of squirrel holes, hugging him/herself against the leafless boughs of the long dead, scraping skin gratefully, hopefully, on the hard bark of any embrace. Kisses found on fluttering wings of starless nights, kisses bound as butterfly things, marrow pieces, bone infirm, dead sparrows supporting worms.
Flames burning faggot, curling melt of the maggot, surely as they expire their voices learn the howling depths of pain’s hot flashes. They join for ever, ever become a singular pile of worthless ashes. A shaman dances, plays around them, mouthing priestly madnesses. He gathers them up, chant-chant-chanting. He gathers them up, sprinkles a taste on his serpentine tongue, rolls in the dirt until his song is sung.
He takes apart an eagle before its parts can die, mixes them together, lays them out to dry, pounds them with a stone, ashes into dust, pours them in his war bag, shakes his fist at us.
~Fake Reality/Earth~
We are spinning in a mirror, focus out of time, only pieces of others’ yesterday our stiff bodies mime music of the dead, words already said. Embrace the false prophet, seek back, hope to define what you need to know on rewind. Original thought, get off it!
She wants a kiss just like the kiss... Clark Gable.
Momma, Momma, make a place for me. I’m tired of fighting and ...
I want to go down and live with the new children, been waitin’ too damned long. I want to sing to them. I want to sing my winter song. I am ready now, little piece of my life, like a good old knife. Cut it out! My heart flops like a dying fish. I’m tired of this.
~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: XXXII~
~Curse of Days~
~The Door~
Comments
15th Apr 2011 (#)
Great story with great photo illustrations. Lots of deep emotion well written! Ping Ya!
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15th Apr 2011 (#)
I like the Ping Ya! Thank-you:-)
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16th Apr 2011 (#)
A marvelous mystical work. Thanks!
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