IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS
a dim precision march
Here we have tread before
Without fear/Well measured
Pagan desires and objective
Study. Pavlov’s dog is still
Breathing, his cigarette falls
To the floor and he dances like
a manic animal. Lost in the
headlights, accidents shall
occur once more. There are
no excuses left for avatars,
no reasons left for men,
only lights in the doorways
flicker and then they slowly
N I G H T
In the dark we rarely see
Images from movies appear
Easy to remain the voyeur
As Bogart stares at Bacall.
Here, are your vampires
your child-like apparitions
Yet true monsters are by far
better dressed and elusive
who, when asked to be truthful
shall lie as they calculate your
fate, look into your eyes and say
“Don’t worry, all is well”.
There is something strange about
demons, night holds the key, we
devoured by these realities which
someone has named the truth.
And yet, who if asked would pray
for a parallel universe? Would you?
Would God do this after listening
to choirs? So uninspired
that he would need to cool off?
This is an impersonation, he is
wearing old spice, his shirt open
down to his navel. Disgusted, we
turn away from this sight, a decaying
Casanova hiding in the shadows of his youth.
As night approaches, we, much like
our old ancestors, still stare into the
fires and wonder about our lives, dream
of our own private shambalas, forget,
pass the bottle and survive.
But is this all we shall amount to?
When all we know is nothing,
A POEM FROM MY DESTRUCTIONS
And now alas yet another poem from my destructions,
You, witness to and here in new flesh and new skin.
The skin of hero, the skin of snake, the skin of monster, the skin of saint all gradually and eventually shedding piece by piece living and dying and reinventing the world. Poems, photographs, enemies and the catastrophes which perish into the void. Paper, undigested words, mute horses and mad nostalgic whores, all reality deficient and nocturnally deaf to the unpure beating heart of man and muse. Reason-religion-idealism-theory….and shit. The perfect and critical butt-flight of monkeys and the cacophony of idle crows who sit upon the fences of eternity passing judgment upon our souls until we give in…to emptiness. But let them all know this;
That Jesus came unabridged with two fish and a loaf of bread, more a poet than a precise carpenter and he fed multitudes….
When stars fall out of the sky and
all lights fade into silence.
When you grow cold
Eyes grow old
Touch grows cold
Stars fall out of the sky
And lights still fade.
That never mattered
You grow cold
Love grows cold
Eyes grow old
And love fails..falls,
Fucked up and silent
Foolish and waiting
In the corner.
When the universe mo longer
Yields to your commands
When the mirror finally breaks
And all you are left with is glass
You grow old
touch grows cold
eyes grow old
And all of the stars still
Fall out of the sky
It’s time for the last call.
R.M. Engelhardt Copyright 2005.