from the cave, a footprint

Book of the Fallen Blood Moon
Chapter 6:  An avalanche of unnecessary metal and dust

With combustible defeat and contained violence he rose from grey stained ashes,

an insolent ferine with contempt curling his nose and opening  his mouth slightly to sneer

he croaked and tossed about and he had burnt his mouth on the necessary lies of the peoples life

he spit and looked around and saw the glow of broken trashy golden garbage shining in the sun

there were several thrones scattered about, severed and cracked, devoid of loves illusory residue

With his empty and newly awakened consciousness he probed old shadows in memories photo

he buried in on the emphatic claustrophobia of distress that had been eating away his original joy

prior to finding himself alive, he had been a suppression of pressure with an unknown creed

like an avalanche of dirt and gravel shaped like a head, he blew the sputter over a stump

life caved , chopped words became true,  the addiction turned to morbid rails leading the sun

Insect variation cast doubt on his crazy unrelenting need to enter the beautiful

like coins in the grating and nothing to eat, eyes crying memories and his hands wanted mother

with the wind trees willowing and whooping and cawing to be free and not give a damn

and he remembered there were birds in there, pinned by the hole &

there was an ant on his way through the sunburst dusk

His mind cleared up of the wax bushes and thorn, the saints prayed in the flickering catacombs

residue apologies, axes and wood, the clean sound of guitar buzz in alien headphones

no one and nothing came back to haunt the spaces of the called

frogs sounded from the pines and wet moss fluttered in the chemical darkness

lines waved subjectively between elder thoughts woven into the invisible framework

The subterranean hold had engulfed his body, his head and it itched

it reminded him he was alive

imprisoned but alive and it felt wonderful again

like all the sinister effluent of the hum drum day to day just up and fucking vanished

some exotic ambrosia or a somnambulant drugged relaxation, all the way to his bones

He couldn’t pin it from a distance, they and their masks, his mask

ah but the people, the people, he loved them all

the necessary yoke and chain, the occasion of one’s head driving through the world

the bludgeon of the self, broken honesty, real karma, dreams that lead to peace

a way with the voice and turning of the giant blue earth

but still he saw, turnstile masks worn for the sighted brethren, and we strutted

all relations, a cavalcade of masquerading dogs singing a hopeless elegy for all

& dancing along the horizon of the earth, like clowns made for a reality that isn’t