Harrowing of Hell

Posted on: Sunday, September 23rd, 2018

“Chief Tyrol… This is the Blackbird?”
“Yes, Ma’am… Madam President, this is an honor.”
“No, the honor’s mine. It’s remarkable.”
“Just a ship, Ma’am.”
“Oh, you’re much too modest. After what we’ve been through, it would be very easy to give up, to lose hope. But not here. Not today. This is more than a ship, Chief. This is an act of faith. It is proof that despite all we’ve lost, we keep trying. And we will get through this. All of us, together. I promise.”
(– BSG S02E09)

Happiness becomes a sin we sought to overcome,
And though our lords and their lords’ lords, too, tend to overcompensate
For the crime of being cowardly and cornering the climactic, still,
Still, we bless the hands that feed off our beasts’ bestests’ vest bets.

Because they eat by the holes on their hands, and some times devour–
Because they are hackneyed and hack-sawed into cruising the valleys and the not-inlands–
Because they react to havoc and suffering like a surrogate trying to bear somebody’s child,
And in doing so get paid to bring and binge into little miracles, the lies of lives.

There is so much sense, becoming a doula for the brute.
There is so much grace in seeking birth where the cosmos is pollute.
Shrill, the sorrow of sparrows, are sensible and under recommence,
Like wrists slit and new women bleeding.

Today, mark the end of your innocence.
Today, you finally dine with the giants and their gods.
No more sitting out conversations, no more having to sleep so early-late that you cringe.
Come here; come, flies; The Absolute Beetle; exhibitionist Devil.

(Come know them. Come memorize. Come binge. Come dine.)


“I took your advice, met on common ground.”
“What was that?”
“We both wanted to live.”

The storms wishes they were as mad as us, mad as tan,
Thrown in pieces of squalor and valor,
Pushed together, pushed away, and pushed back,
Thunder and thunder– wishing to make and to be so depthly unmade.
Indemnity is punitive against the wraith of the gun-turret causality protean.
Only indigo carmines lace the floor. The blood, black and indigo,
My billet-doux lucidities travail.

I have been proven to be a little too much territorial,
Sharing hath become a challenge, a divide, my divide–
A long lost concept run over in the wild
We don’t like seeing the bad guys get away,
Unless, of course, if they’re cozy, and we can cozy up to them.
But I will never cozy up with the normal darknesses.
“No,” I say. “Demand a better version of yourself, always.”

There are Indigo storms here we shall slay!
(Come know them. Come memorize. Come binge. Come dine.)

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