Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I rob myself of a pulse,
poison my will with compassion,
on Golgotha hill's suicide trail,
where my bleached bones array,
diseased in wondrous light,
love's light.

I have no fight, no courage.
I cannot measure up to the memorial.
Ragged ghosts around a stone tablet.
My conscience flew with other spirits,
in denial of hard November rain,
refusing its black toil.

I have no conviction, no honor.
I succumb to leprosies of argument,
spurn the next bloodied sunrise of peace,
ignore a sacrament of shattered bodies.
My lack of faith spans constellations.
I am no longer welcome here.

Great images here

"Ragged ghosts around a stone tablet"

"leprosies of argument"

Nice!

Dam I wish I was a poet and could groove on images. All I got is a trick mind that looks for meanings. What a waste, meaning is so boring, images so beautiful

poison my will with compassion,
on Golgotha hill's suicide trail,

You have more courage than I. I do not think of suicide. I can not write about the savage god. Maybe because each day I am taking a drag on that horrible death. And I see myself in a wonderful light, the sunlight filtering down through the water as I sink. My last walk along a beach, my pockets full of rocks and my lungs full of cancer.


don't mean nothing mnaz, I love the poem just trying to think in images not concrete words.

Love conquers all.

Or love is weakness, despised and crushed.

Which is it? Well, it's both, of course.


Thanks, doreen, 'joker....

mnaz wrote:I rob myself of a pulse,
poison my will with compassion,
on Golgotha hill's suicide trail,
where my bleached bones array,
diseased in wondrous light,
love's light.

I have no fight, no courage.
I cannot measure up to the memorial.
Ragged ghosts around a stone tablet.
My conscience flew with other spirits,
in denial of hard November rain,
refusing its black toil.

I have no conviction, no honor.
I succumb to leprosies of argument,
spurn the next bloodied sunrise of peace,
ignore a sacrament of shattered bodies.
My lack of faith spans constellations.
I am no longer welcome here.

I liked it. Although, like most stuff around here went over my head a bit. The parts I grasped I think are the ones I relate to--depression?--anyway I liked it...

Speak out against the immorality of war,
the rape of holy God, flame extinguished.
But every war is fought for a good cause.
Protest anonymous mass murder by state,
and be cast on the wrong side of justice.
Armored evangelists know the code.
Tell of the struggle inward, not out,
and be murdered as a traitor.

Hell, I don't know what my poem is about either, Ax...
except that I was very tired, and a little hammered...
and apathetic to the idea of peace, since
it has no currency, no pulse, no shortcut....

And love is the barrel of a gun,
Now there's a well-deserving cliche...

Hell, I don't know. I don't know a damn thing.