Mask Yourself

Mask yourself
for maskless we are mortal
and made in an image we should not share in
and cannot shake the feeling
that our vigilance
and our valor
is the lesser when victory serves violence
and not vice-versa.

Though ye beings of pure light
may shine down on all of us
it is from the unlighted
corridors of the mind
that we strike.

The Man of Metal

There he stood, the man of metal,
encased in his armor and enshrined in his own glory
through deeds beyond the ken of mortal men.
But what of the man?
Why his thoughts and the abhorrent images that spring for his mind?
For these valorous deeds are the work of a titan
beyond any of us,
and it should be terrifying to be in his presence.

The man in armor is man no longer.
Now he is a deific expulsion of truth and justice
beyond what we can withstand.

There's no image or idol like the beams of light
he sends to illuminate the world.

Remembering Iason

Let us all remember him
who was a mighty warrior once
who strove for life at every chance
and who was brought down by treachery.
Golden-clad he seemed to me
when we placed him on the pyre
though I know it was my own sweat
and tears reflecting the wasting light.
Not hero-born but hero-blooded
and I wish I could have seen him then
held up by the dead he laid to waste
ennobled by his furious rage
and terrifying to behold.
Remember him to all your enemies
in the sound of your war-cries
and the beating of your hearts.

The Empty Throne

Troglodytes and terrors from the dark
do not haunt and howl so forcefully
as those thoughts of mine which blissfully embark
and target my sanity remorselessly
for he abandons (or Abaddons) his post, the arch-
angel who guards against them sightlessly
and underneath it all, the fall of kings
in their great halls, givers of rings
and dolls and precious things
does hole and harry my heart.

My Rood

Upon their wings they paint the roses
of all yesterday's tea-parties
and all yesterdays beheadings.
When I wake I see them still,
the ironic flowers of war,
ferric in their ferocity,
their cross to bear.
And would that the rood re-transformed
and flowered again
but it is an already-deceased tree cut down to craft the cross.
I saw them cut it yesterday.

All the Thunderous Rage

All the patients in the world could not satisfy these doctors
who poke and prod and have them lie
and steal and cheat and are instrumentalized
by their towering but collapsing intellects,
these epigones,
these eidolons,
these foul cruelties stretched over
and over and over
until taut as drum-skins they beat out the beat
and it pretends sublimity, this thunder,
but does it know it is a thunder of the mind?

Artair's Bears

There they are in full panoply of war,
all of them sons-of-bitches,
dog-men and dog-warriors,
brothers one and all.
Their claws gleam in the noon-bright sun
and their fangs gnash and grind
and their pelts are snow-blown
and wind-wrapped about themselves
for they are but beasts,
alone in the wilderness.

Let them all come, those whoresons
and vagabonds, who like their
namesake bear up the burden of the world.
They are Atlas-ed in their shame
and bow snout down to the earth
to sniffle and grumble at their fate.

Bears, how I adore thee
and wish to be armored in the certitude
of fruitless victory
that you bear so nobly.