PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST ODE On The Divine Inhuman, Injustice is The Sword...


On The Divine Inhuman
da Vinci's Last Supper
Injustice is The Sword

--the human side of it:

in a world where idiots are called good men
& th'clever & the intelligent are regarded as evil
--anything can make sense!

divine tongue stilled before
The Word consumes the unspeakable Foe

that jew who stepped out of the Nazi oven
half-baked, and started to kill Palestinians

... while th'fellows thinking (between
Y and X
) somewhere ... asked, "Why!?"

(itself) Death is the Sun & everything heard

lights the pathway to a calm & old, whispered
shaded porch from which we can pretend

belief (that in the affirmations
of our transient lives, here where

Justice is mere opinion, there lies
a grain of God's divinest

Patient Immortality & not just
th'flat, plain substance of Humanity

darkly looming loudly in us), in our unreal self-

styled Repose facing Justice the false peace,
that restlessness that is Injustice

that unresponsive East--before our porch
through th'hardening arteries of History

a monster of a man, but (one
had to admit): also of some culture
... whenever he'd hit somebody with a brick
he'd call out the title of a famous opera:
" --Got th'damned moron! "

like some starved ancient Beast
threatening Destruction on our lives

so gorgeously! while the just Sun
devours th'lingering dews of Darkness

(our comforting) fading away
from th'dead-hungry view of lies

living loud lives of foulmouthed desperation
... taking title deeds to passing cloud-shapes!

--It's all lies, to repeat here--which O arise
from overtaking rain running down the Sun

refreshingly, across which footfalls run away
from th'distant, dim & dying Sun of Dreams

after some foliage's shade, Wind's Song-Repose
& droplets (th'sentiments like confusions

in its precious plunge, lost) like a pilgrimage
amongst the millions, th'doubtless

(diadem) among th'common dances Done:
that self-betraying self-confidence
--that illusion created by the Consensus

whatever: Yourself
Th'Grave (togetherness

th'bodiless) golden Sigh
like some open gate in the interval
of Context the un-bending brave

sketched to a corner (like a roach
painted in the blankness) but yet singing

th'shady serenade of Sanity
that comforting subway through th'nerves

Nothingness, Mortality (the unfeathered
flaming bedposts of Life

all candles around our coffin) black

& brewing Songs the (shoulders of life
swaying) across the limpid brooks our

misunderstandings like Truth--the hailstones

overcasting with (half-truths
the flakes of Hatred's dead-cold):

flaking bride of blazes, licking
after The Shadows (those unacknowledged
daughters of th'wifeless Sun)

wandering over th'wiles,
women of Serenity: go The Volatile Ages

over the endless landscapes:

those numberless hearses embodied
Nature overall
(the undeniable buoyancy of opened eyes:

All is lies) and Guilt
that vulnerable cornfield (Man th'multitude)

parched stark naked under the Sun, ready to feed
The Obsession O, starlight

th'whiplash of a God (th'cute indigo thunder
of an impotent Man's) looks the unapprehended

Glance (that distant look of The Least
defined) like some barbarous Beast

arising out of th'putrid Spectrums
of its own Purposes

singing of Paradise: unspent Promise--The Onset
cool, the unbraised dreadful

harmonies of its well-balanced Shifts
rocking upon th'Porch of (impossibles

--the human eyes drunk with) Th'Lackluster Lush:
It's All Lies hereabouts ... dark, comforting lies

whose knockabout Importance passes by
as The Swiftest shower (whose momentary Gloom

never the less o'ertakes Man at The Tomb
with ease--Here are the Lies repeated
one last time, before the silence,

while we settle flies under Th'Shade

finally, which we once called made
by The Lies, out of pursuing rain)

now Old, tired Porch where, caught

swarms of reasoning clouds (collect
that which) the raindrops dropt

down: The Fall whose musics the ears of Th'foolish
alive! enthrall (a boldness all so fluorescent

in th'dilating) diluting
in th'Dance of the unrepenting eyes

clotting to Dust outside, within:

swelling a gorgeous Sight o'gestures
like stamps of Th'Caught (pieces of the infinite)
Terror the un-anointed Thought
(that It is All Lies--to repeat--here
"You haven't yet learned how to handle Injustice"

It's a Lie which bears no utterance)

... now I'm going to write it down
so I can write it up... later

quiet before all downcast eyes
--So fascinating a Specter does Death make,

mounted upon his ever-westering
Wings of always (so unrecoverable Urges

splashing inside, chasing us, Always) chasing us
& Always: the decay, destruction, outside

although His existence's only to catch us:
never does He! and we never notice Him,

sitting so hushed & dry, upon a too raw
consenting & celebrating, debating

diversity in its diminuendo,

lovely is the splashing jungle of fouls,
Justice the fly-catcher, deaf & dumb

(since what is good, evil, just or unjust
is mere opinion): We see what we like,

not what we watch in The Light of Justice
shining alien upon us from outside:

dismounting a flowing, magic tapestry

of The Impossible down to our fervid Solitude
stepping always to The Blood sucked dry,

stuck to our nerves burning like ice
against that Dry (our degrading Panic

tearful, our feet upon The Spotless skies
All is but Lies) the tidings

of our quicksilver tricks like tinklings )
that thinning into our Infinite (loss

of hearing) that's that Injustice
(that World-consuming Life that's

... interplay) amongst the truths falls
Death the Sifting

as if right through th'colander
our ever-thinking, ever quick-footed un-

believing Soul (that ancient, all-riddled &
moldy, syrupy sad, honeycombed) Porch
untouched by th'Centuries of porous Mortality

(his Pursuit, dark clouds & all) All
so exposed & holey & accessible,

better than in its Youth (yet more settled)
rocking th'Dusk like Dust covering up The World

with those infinitesimal vessels that voyage
quietly, hardly visible across the shaft of Truth,
of Justice ... looking down The East

laughing, witnesses to the West

(dying in the distance) that's raking up
all of the littered remnants

of [our Yesteryears] which have bolted

into this somewhat dull, beautiful Roundabout
of) Day ever-persisting

in Man's mature Intellectual Constancy
maturing, still beating with Birth

those it kills swing by swing, flop by flop,
year by year, hour by hour

with its forbidden Fruit (Th'Absolute
executing Chill

of our minute by minute)

Spilt Death is The Sun, I'm telling'ya

yes, th'Moot Death (th'curious Specter

where He burns brute Human Imagination)
in th'pursuit of that blasphemy

To Be Free! from Destiny,

just keep to (The Shade
made by the unfathomable, dark lies

lining th'brain), darkness by darkness away from

Th'Sun that's Certainty

--Life strives amens to amens
(amongst the comfortable contingents

of th'cool, moist Shade) provided
under the Brain--overspreading all Reality

& safe from The Sun that is... Death

is The Sun, O Man

I'm telling you: The Sun is Death!
Tintoretto's St. George & The Dragon

^{76} Contrast with 'bodiless'@