oblation – a collaboration with Eric Syrdal

We walk towards a promised land,

soaked in milk and softest sand.

hard trudge

of cracked feet, muddled in the mire

roadside ditches

dirge laden as they walk.

chapped and broken mouths cry out

for a tase of sweet water

to imbibe the knowledge of man’s long

dance with death.

and I, from my mount

stand tall agains the ruined sky

a king carried above the filthy ash that

floats

upon the fetid wind from the west

in the last days of the sun.

Our feet are hot, the path is still.

We bend towards the future’s will.

Your eyes are caved and bleak.

The road is long

when the trudge follows only cloud dreams,

pink and blue and pale

but stupid drops in a cracked palm.

Die – leave the children, they can whisper

to the sky and gather stones,

suck salt fingers with

dry pink tongues like maple.

They do not know to need;

they forget the red skies and smoke.

Each broken step is precious blood,

Our father’s deaths were writ for good.

Like barnacles

clinging to the hull of a ship

Just beneath the topaz surface

or in the oily brine dark

they know only to clutch

to the scraps of life

anything to stay bouyant

Each broken step is precious blood,

Our father’s deaths were writ for good.

I will,

take the earthen bowl

raise it to the deaf gods of a cracked

heaven

They queue at my altar

clutch and raise the hem

of my vicar’s robe

to leave blood kisses

and bits of carrion feathers

upon the mangy threads

I will, minister the salt potion

tip the dusty rim against their teeth

Let is pass through their wispy curtain

of bone husks

Broken, clinking and tangled

marionettes in the grip

of Oblivion

We ache for salt, we burn for bread.

But good men are by hardship led.

Lyrical tithe

their hearts do speak

blindy their sullen eyes will seek

A wooden grail

lying in the road

to grease their lips whilst speak their ode

But the chipped rim

of their sacred cup

will only serve to shut them up

For a bauble held

in desperate hands

can make so much much gold from dust and sand

We ache for salt, we burn for bread.

But good men are by hardship led.

And while I could

direct them safe

my purpose remains to abrade and chafe

United by thirst

they’re of no use to me

I need them at odds, abandoned and weak

We walk towards a promised land,

Soaked in milk and softest sand.

We’ve not enough tears to wet the land

and bring the grass, anew

We’ve only the memories

of a time before this

when all our dreams came true.

A deadened bruise of sky will wake

upon the morrow’s echoed dawn.

Put on your dark, your blackest things –

the sweet old earth will mourn.