Poetic Referendum(s) On Life

The Nails/Hood

The Nails/Hood

Nine inch nails drive into my skull,
reverberate subconscious.
Words perfectly recaptured
in harmonic head amphitheater
cascade memory after memory of
are you worthy, did you serve well?

To whom I owe debt sometimes unknown.

Feel a cur, bit the ‘master’ that fed?
Disembodied hand hammered away
at those spikes. Relentless, life taught
where face meets dirt. Do I stay
down on my knees?

No one’s Jesus, or piteous child-martyr,
I’ve been staked, shard-fractures with flesh-
driven, unwilling to die on any mound.

What’s left when deep, shiniest dreams
cloud, drift away? force you to decide
what must be given chase? see obstacles,
you, feeding the impulses. Disgrace?

Sufficiently aerated by blacksmith steel force,
I can look you in the eye with no remorse.
If any spirit resides, it rests, rejoins
with what remains. Look beyond whatever
manipulator, shame of meager words launched
ethereal. Know false crosses faced.

I know when and where I died, repeatedly
self-resurrected from each crime against one
who reverbs soft, smooth, restores whole.
Stronger than before? Too old?

Bring a nail gun, mortar shell, atomic missile
and tell me where to stand. But, I request
witnesses hear you read me last rights,
and let me look direct into the eye of each —
so I can stare deep, get a glimpse
of each simpering sycophant suckling
teats of self-proclaimed gods — if just
to shudder how dark sadistic satin's aim.

No grave, no holy apparition will be seen.
The invisible nails cowards send in palms
deliver no pain, but seal their own future fates.


5.16.24


https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107858531883/

The sound comes up in my head this morning and it’s the emphatic lines from ann artist who decries the hapless sheeple nations. And yet, the simplest cliche questions emphasized by a haunted voice and cacophony of arranged, punctuated music does as little good as Bono (unless you credit him for Mandela’s release and brief reign). Better tune than ‘Feed The World’.

My Immortal always plays on the flip side, if not memorializing, self-healing, where your pale pity will not suffice.

I provide my own shroud of words that testify a lamb can be slaughtered more than once and still have an ounce of blood not drained into your chalets.

Metal Cased
Hood up, lights down.
I’ll suck on that straw before that next round…

P.S., no one is your master. You can set yourself free and remain healed. If it feeds you, eat if you must. Don’t lend loyalty to the owner who does not embraced you as equal.
Respect is emboldening. Given eyes and ears to earn a heart as friend is endearing. To enter a contractual obligation to embark on new journeys together decides the other’s fate.
Fate. Fuck it up brilliantly, if all fails.