THEOCRACY
~~~
POEMS
by
WILLY J. WILLIAMSON
~~~
Back Alleyways
I was one of those fools, lurching
about in the streets. My chin, gushing
its cherry juices, was sliced open by some
ghastly blade flying in the night, a weapon
wielded by pure madness. I was crouched behind
a bordello dumpster, caked in joyous grime,
a man challenged by none but bested by all.
Sick, weary, bloodied, and clueless, I sat
naked in the filth, chamberpot refuse flying from
steamy windows in piles at my gnarled, aching feet.
But I, transfixed by the sight before me,
barely recoiled from the splashings of shit
surrounding me. Hidden from sight by the massive
trash receptacle, I ogled each and every last
buxom preacher and mayor and police officer's wife
creep into that blackened box room and meet her
smiling suitor, eyes glistening from the weight
of bawdy fantasies within. It is in these moments,
I tell you, that life itself is revealed, and the
mysteries of morality, philosophy, and science
collide into a festering pool of lewd truth.
Our terrifying little rat race, our crafty plans,
all end in the same cycle: eat, shit, fuck and die.
Now I'm laying behind the dumpster, giggling to
myself. The cops will be around soon, and I'll be
back at the shelter. I'll shit in the corner and maybe
write my name on the wall with it. Then, back into
the grey yonder.
Untitled trash
Ripe Lingo is the wit of pretension
Jargon is the fibery fuel of
the pellet stove that is my muse
Even I wince at the pleasing placement
of a quavering whim.
Big Purple
These chains of deceit that bind me to this hardwood seat.
I bend and break the bars that confine, but they remain, like the haughty, jagged grin of an eroded skull.
Such good times as these are even visited by dark slips of the gut from thoughts of tortures past.
It was a massive structure, swathed in a meagerly regal indigo, lined in placid silver.
In this place I did not cry of neglect. I was no dark horse, puffing promises of vengeance
for the cruelty and nonchalance of my lords.
They catered to me well, forever willing to stir into my cauldron their own lazily construed dogmas.
But O, so long as I gazed upon the faces of my peers, eyes starried with anticipation of knowledge
and fantastic visions of otherworld intrigue, I could not lead the expected life of indifference. Intrigue
of the kind that I confusedely examined, reaching deep into the dark, conceptual pit of the unknown, and unproven.
Exhausted, I came to my knees, deep in the cave, to rest, to wait for all the promised realities to reveal themselves.
I waited so very long for such things. Drew and blew irreplacable breaths
awaiting the truth of falsehood to at last burst forth, at the final moment, to redeem itself.
Assorted botched haikus
Obstinant Minds Burn
Infinite adolescence
Abandon your dreams
When idiots sing
the world listens intently
Vomit fills the streets
Second place notions:
Nobody likes a quitter,
Less like winners
Rusty
I am a man who has a
constant taste of fry oil
in his mouth.
Like pond water laden with the
fluid of rotted fauna
I am Rusty, lovelessly satisfied
gladiator of apathetic idealism
Seating Changes
The cogs of time
are creaking to life.
The time has come for me to shoulder my
responsobility and become a man.
No, it hasn't.
It is time to shut up.
It's time for everyone to shut up.
Not time to think; thinking is an eternal funnel.
Time to grind the stones;
harvest the aeons of work.
The bounties of our travels,
Endless musty rooms of crystals and trinkets
are pulverized by the hulls
of twisted, shapeless juggernauts.
Truly Terrifying Facts
I feel the beads rolling
Traversing
Dripping in the dull quiet
Hands quaking, unclenched
An empty thought, daily
The dry, dense air, my lungs frozen in True Terror
for what?
An eternal shade is perched casually
upon my windowsill,
the prospect of doubt.
To consider the intangible
is to
is
The question is answered
What is to be, but me?
Ponder the Unknown
The Moat
A man stands
His appearance uncertain
All I recall
Is a stone wall
Water and land
Expanse
Surely there could be a way across
Certainly, the broken dreams of his forefathers, they could
Must
Come to fruition
Shifting and watching, he stands.
At the forefront of Hell's maw,
a simple moat of water.
Uncrossable, all have tried.
It is understood.
The man who stands
turns away. He does not know.
And could not know.
For he has been told.
Paint
Awake at night in the
Midst of urban insanity
I sit in my hovel
Crouched against cracked drywall
and peeling paint.
I hear
The sounds
Of pandemonium
Lurid screeches of betrayal
and the whimpers of cursed
Bastard Urchins.
Scribbling, like an ember flaking
softly, but hotly,
on the walls, in coal, in chalk,
in paint.
One morning I awoke to discover
The wild tales of twilight madness
Here I am
At this mom n' pop hardware store,
standing in line, cold sweat piercing my brow.
A palmy blue mix in hand,
To conceal.
Just as hideous ugliness
Is dipped in sunlight and forgotten,
so shall I paint my walls.
Long forlorn sighs
He was a simple man in common garments
a soft face with barren features
Surges of panic and terror ripped
through her cocky comfort
She recalled, as if in previous lives,
His scowl. His crestfallen stare.
His deft touch, eons and lightyears
Away
From what?
The man looked at her, no emotion
bubbling through his lips or eyes.
Each one knew of the pointless bygones.
He spit on the ground and turned away.
Clock-Master
I sometimes fall asleep in the
Day-time
Drifting away, in timeless suspension.
And sometimes,
I awaken,
To frozen reality.
A world of live statues, halted chaos,
encased in a void of sensation.
For days, months, and years,
I wander my hometown,
I wait, and wonder, and forget
Then as soon as I have released
My grip on this miraculous paradise,
The exhaustion of reality grips
me in frigid, heavy slumber.
Awake, and with fully prescribed
inhibitions, I dismiss
what I have seen.
But more importantly, I dismiss
What I have done.
Untitled trash2
"Nay," I say.
I am a sayer of nay.
"A naysayer," you say.
You see I say "nay."
And "nay," you say.
And to that,
I
Say
"Nay."
China
If I could fly, I probably wouldn't.
Yeah, I would.
The first point is that there are no points;
there never will be.
Last night I threw my bookshelf off the roof.
No pleasure, no sensation.
A presence of nothing, that's the goal.
I don't want that.
There are no marks on my record.
There are no records.
No thoughts, no felings, no guilt.
Only movement and pain.
Untitled trash3
A man with a pen
Puts a pen to a paper
Moves a pen to create words
Silly words, arranged in operatic exhibitions
Facsimile egos, stitched together
From whispers of impossibility, or,
better yet,
Crushing normality.
Men Who Tell Stories
I've got a problem with these strange
men who keep walking around my house
walking in circles, silent, polite
but stern and staring with stares
that tell stories. Stories I don't like
to hear.
These guys, they're supposed to be here
to tell me something, but none of them
seem to want to get down to the details.
they're all more than willing to spit
shine my shoes and fart into the wind next
to me but what is the point of it all?
One of them says he wants to show
me something, to forget the stories,
the details, that it's all lies.
I told him I wasn't interested.
Feels like there's more and more of them
every day, hanging out on my porch and
passing cigarettes on my backyard patio.
I've learned to ignore them, or at least
try to, but as soon as I get used to them,
they start opening their briefcases, rich
mahogany briefcases full of fabulous,
irresistable product, some seriously good
shit. But then they start telling those
damn stories, and I'm wondering how long
they've been here.
Days, weeks, fortnights, months, years, decades?
Seems longer, or shorter, I can't even tell. I
haven't seen my lawn in a while, and the grass
won't grow because these guys are always standing
on it, so I guess it doesn't matter. Maybe someday
they'll leave, but until then, I'm just going
to try to tolerate them. What's the worst that could
happen?
To Clive, concerning Struggle.
Struggle.
How easily we could avoid that perpetually mundane institution.
But we subject ourselves to it.
Day in and day out.
Waking to wrathful conflict, flagellating our psyches with sick,
venomous passion.
What to do what to do what to do
Imagine a situation.
Imagine that situation resolved and forgotten.
Between those two statements lies the answer, in one word.
We'll never know that word.
Most of us take comfort in that.
Now, imagine a world with meaning, truth, and a clear path.
Choices that make themsevles, codes of honor to uphold.
This should be ideal.
And to some, it is.
But I do not exist in the same illustrious kingdom as
Those.
Standing outside the walls, I realize I must make my own way.
I loathe this fact daily.
We search, and search, some find, some give up.
Others... reevaluate.
What is the place for the reevaluators?
Deep Grass Lane
Drive down any country road in a twilight hour.
That insidious feeling you get, cruising.
Eyes fixated on the meandering pavement.
Turn your lights off.
Close your eyes.
Gently tap the brakes, then depress them completely.
Keep those eyes shut.
Don't you dare open them.
Don't think.
Know in that moment that you are not alone.
Know that the shadows dance,
with visages of beings beyond our comprehension.
You can see them, fleetingly, but you'll never know it was them.
The closest you'll get is that moment.
Stationary, grasped by darkness and silence.
Deliberate Shades of Insanity
It is simple to laugh
at this sinister comedy,
ablaze with maddening duality.
A true scene of blood-thick bonds,
breaking never, but
somehow,
tightening, like the noose
around the throat of the last
living,
thinking organism,
ascending beyond basic self judgment,
embracing those strange strings
bound to his every feature,
gladly frisking about for the puppeteers
I wonder,
if those few,
whose delusions fuel
the superstitions of many,
I wonder if they know,
of their part in the great galatcic
swindle.
The blackened remains of our
organic souls.
The most ancient of follies,
A long running joke of
existential abandon.
They are the procurers,
They hold the keys,
and are blameless and trustworthy.
Is it an aspect of the human instinct?
To chase the howling packs of mysteries
that stalk wantonly in the night
in search of minds to sap,
and devour whole?
Creatures forever hidden in the margins,
the immortal footnotes of our collective knowledge,
wedging themselves against
revolving glass doors
to open spaces.
Obstinate minds burn, and quickly.
Ignited by instant gratification
and perishable fixtures, easily replacable.
And the foolishness of those who
embrace infinity
like some timeless yarn
A tale woven from the wombs of gods,
with a starring role just for you,
but, in verisimilitude,
a pitifully brief cameo
in the pantheon of our flying rock
in the cold, black sky.
A self sustained closet of chilled tolerance,
releasing its vapors for us all
to forever breath,
and never acknowledge.
And so, the cloud approached.
Some vengeful automaton,
strung together
by a ridiculous, ancient
grimoire of life-law.
God?
Little more than a slave to himself,
and to the drama he has penned
for us and our universe.
In the depths of oblivion
is a towering mirror, suspended.
Quivering like severed tentacles
in inky blackness is god.
He creeps closer to the shining monument.
Like all members of the community of sentience,
He must know himself.
The other deities whisper and gossip,
as Yahweh sees himself for the first time.
He looks down upon his Earth.
His little blue sphere,
his pet-project, his hideaway
of painful secrets and disastrous
experiments.
His colony of lepers, that which was
once his.
He sees the sunset on the cosmic horizon.
A fierce, warring red zenith, the thunderhead
of prophesied tempests.
No prophesies have fallen on his ears, no,
for he knows his lot.
He knows, as the cloud grows:
Inevitably.
God looks down because there is no up.
No deity to recline upon.
He weeps, and with the tears comes the
Death of god.
American Spirit
The smoke tasted similar to
tea-kettle steam, mixed with
the least cozy of rustic
woodland incences, forming
a cruelly mellow and inconsequential
flavor, bland to mind, body, and spirit.
Ode to Brendon Moyer
And he did not walk
the hallways of youthful fortresses.
He strode.
Victoriously, with vigor, and without shoes.
For, to be silently scribbling, and upon you
with shocking quickness is this
dragon eyed boy, who unleashes his
cry of mirth before even the slammed doors
clunk against the cinderblock walls.
He was a bard of precocious ability, although surreal.
Tales of adventure with the offspring of mystical gypsies
questing along the coasts of foreign lands, among many others,
spiced with explosions of eastern-european dialect.
Never before and never more shall any man known a fellow
of such berserk geniality.
The Cafe
The cliques will talk circles around you.
Switch tables a few times, get the full story.
You'll see how they overlap and intertwine.
They're not all lying, no.
But none of them are giving all the details.
It's far too risky to let an outsider in,
so they slide the blade across the floor,
to your feet,
making sure the proper arrangements are made.
Nobody wants to ruin the big surprise.
We're all in the dark, after all.
Slide a bullet in the chamber and spin the chambers,
before you change your mind.
Then, look around at all these fools.
Whispering about eachother, and about you.
And how they've always leered at me.
How they pity me.
And how I pity them.
Those Simple Masters
Those simple masters
corralling their prey.
Their emerald eyes shine brightly,
against skies lined with coal.
How tightly they pull the blindfold.
How reverent their speeches.
So very gray and numbing.
Sing, my friends.
Let us sing for them.
As we're led blindly into eternity
by our simple masters,
corralling their prey.
Crusader
Those heavenly bodies,
they'll rend your mind to ribbons.
It's true;
But first, you must be willing to play the part.
Only the blind, deaf, dumb, and pious need apply.
You'll sit in your padded seat, nodding.
So sad, it's true, and who are you?
Lips blue, eyes black. A warm cadaver to be filled.
Don't bother looking back, the end of the tunnel
disappeared
long ago.
Surely, to turn from the rising sun is blindness,
to spit on sacred ground is folly,
to face the abyss without fear is madness and abandon.
Sometimes, in the ragged dusk I hear a shallow murmur,
a call to arms for the dirty and faithless.
It's true, so who am I to ask why?
I, of these tired lies, and small, evil mind.
Not so evil as the silent engines that propel my quest.
A sojourn fetterd in shackles of taunting realities,
held above our brows as a beacon to the journeys of tomorrow.
And blessed am I, to vanquish the marauding bandits.
The unwanted and foul.
Those who would not accept the gift.
Gibbering with thoughts of lust, hatred, and pride I prevail.
And breathless, at the peak of that wretched descent,
we'll see the fabled reward, cold and pale.
And those who mock or doubt my tale, may the mercy
of fools be upon ye.
I, of Infinity
I, of infinity, I grasp
the reins of the foul
breathed beast.
The dragon of
our paltry mountain,
the spectre who judges
our endless diversion.
And from the colorless
echoes of the void, I,
of infinity, watch
as the cloud grows.
The cloud that will
devour you
and your dragon
and your mountain
and your souls.
The Lost Restroom Key
It appeared as if some bloated
derelict had wandered into the stall
and expelled his juices about
the walls, a potpurri of bile,
cheap brandy, and what looked
like mango slush.
The sludge caked the walls with an
astounding thickness, barely budging
to the stalwart scrapes of the shovel
I stabbed at it.
It had obviously been here a long time
which was curious,
as dozens of patrons throughout the
night had borrowed the key and done
their business without a peep of
contempt at the ghoulish scene
in the restroom.
I imagined the last one, a fat old
man, weary and bald, eager to
relieve himself and hurry to his
destination, slinging open the
leaden door and gaping, before
even flipping the lightswitch, at
the pure stench. No doubt it
crossed his and all of the other's
minds the foulness of the situation,
the pure filth surrounding them,
but they sat, shit, and left
Watching Paint Dry
I've always been an enthusiast for the
Fine game of baseball.
I am quite lonely in this league, or so
it seems, as most of
my associates are keen to liken it to
observing the freshly
splashed whitewash of a skilled painter,
which I suppose is a
fair comparison. Both spectacles are
drawn out, repetitive,
and tend to the esoteric within: each
one who is drawn to
enjoy the fanhood of our pastime has
their own personal
mantras, and standards with which to
judge. Every action,
however agile or daring, is but a flicked
brushstroke, adding
to the tapestry of a solitary game.
We are the judge
and jury, the unblinking eye that haunts
the gladiators, the
roving observers who deftly pinpoint
the flaws in a patch
of perfectly white paint. For, perfection
is unattainable, and
knowledge of this is why we don't watch
paint dry, and why
we watch baseball.
