Heart Song's Devastation Device

Corridors of ancillary porticos and retractable switchblades, Macrocosmic sentry’s patrolling the scenery’s v-cut scape,

In their boots, the sole is clothed in lathered concrete—

Worn

Sworn

Torn

Devastate

It is but a foundational approach of beheading—An arsenals instrument, still clanging, even on into the post-mortem survey of disciplinarian design.  Shackles are chafing the inner thigh—its lines are brutal and corrupt, bankruptcy in a cauldron of maleficence, proposing nightly, during the encore, upon the stage crafted by a lightning strike—filibusters become the lucre, the damning suet of exsanguinated space

Damned.

Crumbs

Of

Neer-do-alls

Devastate

And then the heart sings, in putrid voices made from crocodile tears. They are all combusting at a euphoric pace, blinding the children and heiresses alike.  With dreams of tomorrow, they thank you for the kindness you share with them now. Their liner notes have since been blurred, recollection transformed into an absurd shade of paste-framed blonde. 

Devastate

Alleviate

Pulsate

Palpitate

Crush.

Swing.

Heart-aches

This sculpted axe swings it’s arms short to long. While the pastry chef expands his tonsils, still reddened by the convoluted inhalations that have merged too often with the birth canals of silent screaming.  Squelch. I love that word. It’s influx settles high. Into, and exchanged from without, the assistance of a predisposed effigy, some creature you wish you never had known, all this, during the moment of argh.  The agony of the ecstasy…the shifting sounds of sighing SHHHHHHHH’s!!! And listen, to the highways divided and the sky, as it sends forth its parade of effervescence, one, not yet diluted by life’s hologynic rapture—

Diodes

Implement

Salvation

To those

Of us,

Those among us,

That still cares….

I sing with a vociferous tongue.

My heartstrings are frayed

My range has betrayed my trust

Drawing mute, I reflect and clutch,

Unto a prismatic unveiling,

A claw used to scratch away the damnedest itch..

Simply put

Devastation,

Devastation to,

The most heart-curdling degree

Shared with the outstanding poets at D'verse for the incredibly potent evening of poetry that is Open Link Night.  Haven't had the time to properly spend swimming the seas of poetry lately. I've been in the middle of something and trying to figure things out for myself logistically in the meanwhile.  Writing alone has been much more sparse than I'd like.  I have done a fair share of writing lately, but still far too less than I'd like.  But again, it is something that I'm working on, trying to regain the groove of writing and reading the amazing poetry that is available across the world daily in the poetry blogging universe.  Hopefully things will trend back and soon for me.  However, until the end of the month at least, I doubt I'll get much time online, let alone the time to write and read, as I'll be taking a flight out west for that time and while I'll have my Ipad handy, it's the wifi only kind, so, I'm somewhat at the variable fate of wifi availability.  Anyhow, for those who follow regularly, thanks, I do appreciate it, and again, hopefully I'll get back into a regular routine sooner than later.  Until then, thanks for being there and bearing with me as I attempt to logistically sort things out.

The Intricate Line that Spans War, Power, Sexl Love and Death

I.
To be immortal is commonplace; except for man, all creatures are immortal, for they are ignorant of death; what is divine, terrible, incomprehensible, is to know that one is immortal.


II.

…he fell in a slumbering; and dreamed how a dreadful dragon did drown much of his people, and came flying on wing out of the west parts and his head, him seemed, was enameled with azure, and his shoulders shone as the gold, and his womb was like mail of a marvelous hue; and his tail was full of tatters, and his feet were flourished as it were fine sable, and his claws were like clean gold. And a hideous flam of fire there flowed out of his mouth, like as the land and water had flamed all on fire. Then him seemed there came out of the Orient a grimly bear all black, in a cloud; and his paws were as big as a post.  He was all wrinkled with lowering looks, and he was the foulest beast that ever any man saw. He roamed and roared so rudely that marvel it were to tell. Then the dreadful dragon dressed him against him and came in the wind like a falcon, and freshly strikes the bear. And again the grisly bear cuts with his grisly tusks, that his breast was bloody, and the blood railed all over the sea. Then the worm winds away and flies upon high, and came down with such a sough, and touched the bear on the ridge that from the top to the tail was ten foot large.  And so he rends the bear and burns him up clean, that all fell in powder, both the flesh and the bones; and so it fluttered abroad on the sea.

III.

You invaded my sorrowful heart

Like the sudden stroke of a blade;

Bold as a lunatic troupe

Of demons in drunken parade

IV.
A man can only begin to understand the depths of woman’s nature when he surrenders his soul unequivocally.  It is only then that he begins to grow and truly to fecundate her.  There are then no limits to what he may expect of her, because in surrendering he has delimited his own powers.  In this sort of union, which is really a marriage of spirit with spirit, a man comes face to face with the meaning of creation.

V.
You in my mortified soul

Made your bed and your domain;

     Abhorrence, to whom I am bound

As the convict is to the chain,

VI.
He participates in an experiment which he realizes will always be beyond his feeble comprehension.  He senses the drama of the earth bound and the role which woman plays in it. The very possessiveness of woman takes on new light.  It becomes as enchanting and mysterious as the law of gravitation.

VII.
One day when he’d gone out to hunt, after fasting and painting his face in the proper way, he felt the leaves moving not far from where he was. He sensed a shape and halted, saying: A big animal!  He approached slowly, heedlessly.  Not taking the time to make sure what it was, he boldly shot his arrow.  He ran to see.  There is was, lying on the ground, dead.  What had Fallen?

He was frightened, 
of course.  
Some evil 
would befall him now.

VIII.
As the drunkard is to the jug,

As the gambler to the game,

As to the vermin the corpse,

     I damn you, out of my shame!

And I prayed to the eager sword

To win my deliverance,

And have asked the perfidious vial

To redeem my cowardice

IX.
It was almost as if I had suddenly discovered that she was a cripple.  That happens now and then, when two people fall in love.  And if it is love which has united two people then a discovery of that sort serves only to intensify the love.  One is not only eager to overlook the duplicity of the unfortunate one, one makes a violent and unnatural effort towards identification. “Let me carry the burden of your sweet defect!”  That is the cry of the lovesick heart.  Only an Ingrained egotist can evade the shackles imposed by an unequal match.  The one who loves thrills at the thought of greater tests; he begs mutely that he be permitted to put his hand in the flame.  And if the adorable cripple insists on playing the game of pretense then the heart already open and enfolding yawns with the aching void of the grave.  Then not only the defect, but the body, soul and spirit of the loved one are swallowed up in what is veritably a living tomb.

X.
Alas! The vial and the sword

Disdainfully said to me;

‘you are not worthy to life

From your wretched slavery,

You fool!— if from her command

Our efforts delivered you forth,

Your kisses would waken again

Your vampire lover’s corpse!’

XI.
When the end draws near, there no longer remain any remembered images; only words remain.  It is not strange that time should have confused the words that once represented me with those that were symbols for the fate of he who accompanied me for so many centuries.  I have been Homer; shortly, I shall be No One, like Ulysses; shortly, I shall be all men; I shall be dead.

This piece is my attempt at a Cento, which the work of other writers are reassembled, into a collage of sorts, with the intent of creating something original and unique.  For more about this form, stop on over to D'Verse, where Sam Peralta is hosting Form For All
, and has gifted us all with an incredible article, which includes a detailed discussion about this form.

A Breakdown of original Text:

I.  & XI.    The Immortal, Jorge Luis Borges

II.            Le Morte Darthur, "Arthur and Lucius Emperor of Rome",
               Sir Thomas Malory
III., V., 
VIII & X.   The Vampire, Charles Baudellaire

IV., 
VI & IX      Sexus, Henry Miller

VII.           The Storyteller, Mario Vargas Llosa