R.M. ENGELHARDT

THE ZERO YEAR

Trans-ferance.

Voice Of Angels
Voice Of Nothing
Voice Of Prophets

Voice

Of God

The Voice Of Self
The Waiting, (The Dead)

Receptacles…Shells

Of No Certainty. Never`Land.

Stuck in denial,
Traffic, Chaos

To tell the tale,
Trans-MIT dim echoes
Of ancient lies, eternal
Of night-sleep
Obscuring~Blinding

Dark.

For Forever Is Never A Forever
No Absolutes
No Signs
No Mistake

That upon this precipice
You dwell like the haunted man,
Year Zero Once Again
Handed down by the
Great King
Of Kings, rising falling
Forgetting

That upon this earth
Somewhere a child awakens,
Joyful & naive

Without fear.

_______________

WORLD ON FIRE
(From “The Resurrection Waltz, 2013)

Saxophone screaming.

Like jazz… morphine.
salvation…
running, thru the streets

To:

Refrain Refrain Refrain

To Begin ~ To End,

Proceed.

To, Some Where Some Way

Silence.

In Dead Lights And In Hyper-Space
And Unto The Holy Light of the
Last Cash Machine
As the Utopian Prophecy bleeds
Magnificent, Malevolent
In-To Thine Youthful Eyes Which Hears- Seas
Of Majestic rhymes & urban schemes,

A Salvation… Of Gun Shot Megaphone Deliverance

And Oh Unto Thee, We Deliver Great Hopes Of Miracles… Mercy.

Illuminations As Thy Cradles Rock Falsely
With The sad Arrogance Of Label Made Kings,
Offering Up All Your Dead sons,
father, mother, sisters, brothers
used up,
Mother-Fuckers
Who have killed the word, & the sound & whole world of grace
Monotonous with

“Hype”

With the smiles of Money~Greed Messiahs
Sampling Out Salvation, A Promise, A Lie,
All Their Words Now,
Just An Epiphany,

In A “Box”

Moving on down towards
South Of Heaven
Non-Transcendence Dead Enlightenment &
The Dead Roar Of Time
That says

“Nothing”

Nothing.

Fore-wards
Back-wards stealing From All the Lost Poets & the dead souls
With a weak childish snarl that says, “ME’ “MINE”
A place where no philosophers need apply.
With No More Gods To Worship &
No more new myths to create

As The Vessel Sinks,
Stinks,
Reeks Of Slamming bores
Rhyming Whores for all the same crimes

Yo.

Pants Un-Fit With weak words that will not survive
The Tides Of Time
And that shall never ever make it
Unto The Shore.

As one-day they will all say:

Kill Roy was here
And he wrote a poem upon the WALL
Which said this

“NOTHING”

Except that he was here.

With his Bling Props No Props No Echo Your Masses Asses Making
Hip Gang Signs & Buying Up Your Video Product

YO.

No Rebels left But Cowards Who just Sing The Song Of Thy Puppet Selves
Little Boys Of Violence With Little Swords That Cannot & Will Never Plow The Field
Of Men.

Because, with weapon in pants, they are shit. Who do not mend.

Hip?
Gone.
Now amongst us silent

Hop?
Dead

The very thought
That once we shit thru our veins, living
Lost,
Intolerable,
And MIA

As non aware un-alive
Follows when time is measured
monosyllabic and in waning days
For death recurrence
And numbers on papers, not soldiers
Become A Waste Of All That Is-Was Life.

But Can such an Armageddon
Accidental circumstances exist?
Life? Made of location and color
When the door of words is finally broken
With All levels un-covered
And Boring sets made of dead set repetition?

No.

Because every man
therefore may whisper in the wind,
tend to the madness,
up to him-self,
Disappear
in thy-self.

No.

That these are all faults
because every man
therefore may whisper in the wind,
Unto the vast world
Which is Now Dead

To Others.

Saxophone,

screaming…

(Once like jazz… morphine.. salvation… running, thru the streets)

A World On Fire

Which said something

That Mattered

Now dead.

________________

~ R.M. Engelhardt