Lineage

Lineage is, at its core, a bloodline

bleeding onward from the ancient ages,

and blood, they oft say, is thicker than wine

delineating history ’s stages;

and to know what oceans of blood were spilled

so we, Modern Men, could live on this day,

is to know all whom our ancestors killed —

sacrifices we may never repay;

sacrifices of countless men, dead men

whose hearts were pierced and whose guts were torn out,

their loins castrated and their heads smashed in

as they screamed and moaned and thrashed all about,

meanwhile, the women were raped, forced to bear

the seed of invaders whom they abhorred,

men who raped while black smoke still filled the air

from the fires and pyres after armies warred.

And those children who were often captured

to be fed to dogs, or gods, for a laugh,

or enslaved to serve ever afterward

as bound wombs for breeding yet more distaff.

What horrors, bloodshed, and living nightmares

bleed through today, swelling Time ’s crimson flood

so we may live in our complacent airs,

thinking ourselves ripe with innocent blood.

Violent Reflections

These jagged shards of broken glass
deeply stuck in the bleeding head,
each shard reflecting times that pass
in confrontation and bloodshed
from collisions of headlong wills
amidst the fog of war and wrath,
crashing together, the gas spills—
we emerge from the aftermath
like beasts born and baptized in spite,
seeing red yet, and soon to brawl,
scowling, growling, fists knotted tight
as broken glass embeds us all.

(I work Security and have to deal with entitled man-children every single day as the Coronavirus spreads throughout the Divided States of America. This is dedicated to them. The dumb fucks.)

The Tragic Miracle Of The Feminine

It is like the womb of the Madonna
besieged by a Roman soldier
and thereafter birthing Christ—
it is to take violence inward
and transform atrocity
into a miracle, the feminine miracle
of self-sacrifice against natural
savagery,
life from violence,
and so, in the manner of his mother,
Jesus worked upon the savage earth
feminine miracles
with life rendered from violence,
love bleeding out from violence
as he took within him
the spiteful lance of Longinus
to birth life and love and mercy
upon a savage world,
accepting the whip and the
thorned crown
and accepting the cross;
not to save mankind from itself,
but to show the way
his mother knew
of terrible violence
and awful miracles,
for Mother is god
in the eyes of a son.

The Beast Remains The Same

It is a curious circus trick
to force a lion to leap through rings,
not done by books or reason or logic,
but with a whip that snaps and stings.
A natural predator is thus tamed
only through the promise of violence,
not education or being shamed,
but by Nature’s basic commonsense.
Try to read to the lion a book
about the innate worth of a human being—
try to raise him from a cub to look
at a woman as an equal, seeing
enough to emote and to understand,
to empathize with potential prey…
He will not listen, and will eat the hand
that flips the page, despite your dismay.
You are but meat he has his eye on
and he only understands brute force;
and, no, this is not just about a lion,
but all creatures without remorse.
If you think you can tame the breed
through intergenerational reform
you are in denial and you really need
to look at history, and its norm.
The lion has always ruled the lamb,
despite whatever Jesus might have said,
and if not a lion, the strongest ram
ruled with a bellicose, horn-crowned head.
Tyrants, pharaohs, psychos, thieves,
kings and queens and bishops and popes—
they rolled up the bloody cuffs of their sleeves
and rarely washed their hands clean with soaps.
Look: the beast reigns if not whipped each day
nor is this a Beauty-and-Beast case,
and sometimes not even a whip can keep at bay
the beast salivating close to your face.
Nor is the lion-tamer always spared—
he is often the first that is mauled;
too complacent as fangs are bared,
lamenting his career as he is clawed.
And the lion-tamer has in his own heart
a fierce lion roaring in equal measure
so he may fulfill his grandstanding part
and rein-in other lions for your pleasure.
The point remains: no book has ever
halted the fangs of a slobbering beast,
nor education or beliefs, however clever,
so do not trust Life’s circus— not in the least.

Tisiphone

Bullets beget bullets, thus,
as seeds to trees to seeds,
a violence which enslaves all of us
until murder, itself, breeds.

Pernicious pandemic of profiteers
pilfering the dead for a lucrative cause
and promoting a life of arrears
and chaos from order’s laws.

Your seeds bloom from fertilizer
afforded by endless blood debts
in the hearts of each survivor
who, aggrieved, never forgives or forgets.

And so the paradox bears fledglings
as fear and anger born of Love,
for the slain dead spread their wings
in every heart—hawk born of dove.

The Fury comes, serpent-haired and wild,
cloaked in blood and flayed skin,
raising Cain as Christ is exiled
and seeking vengeance against sin.

Each bullet is a snakebite
envenoming vendettas ever onward,
pursuing a perpetual fight;
cycles into cycles, culling the herd.

It is a cull to credit the coffers
for those whose creed is Fear,
prostituting the Fury with offers
of human sacrifice, year after year.

Behold the war to hereby become
king of the corpse mountain,
the rest of us desensitized, numb,
while blood gushes as a fountain.

Thoughts and prayers to the dead,
but offer blood to our new idol,
and a space in your heart, in your head,
subsuming all else dear and vital.

And join us beneath our beloved goddess
whose serpents bite their own tails—
her bandolier is but a bodice,
each bullet increasing its own sales.