In Ascension
Desire is destruction
The older I became, the more I saw reality through a gauze of dreams. At last, I believed life was beautiful again. This was the driving force—the absolute necessity of distortion. I dove through that great devotion‚ collapse. Art and rupture. I pushed myself to god’s cold glass and the dreaming darkness in its burning gestures said: I AM, I AM devastation again. The plan was to trick (the fountain of) God into giving me what I wanted. Ages and ages of useless ascension. When you speak, you execute me, and I am devastation again. You were as fragile as desire, as the light of stars feasting in their black wastelands, and I am devotion again. Unraveling at the seams in these days of decadence and the darkness ends and I ascend to the deep wells of dream again say in the darkness I AM I AM
who am I in the arrythmic dark? who am I that thou say thou art?
who am I—this heartbeat in the darkness?
like the murmuring starlings, you were terrified of being alive, terrified of being divine
stigmata on your hands, I am riven and resurrected by desire again
The throat of God is voracious—this is the divine comedy of desire. There are no more worlds. Both in my early twenties and my late twenties I desperately needed saving—the only difference is that by the end of my twenties I thought I was worth saving. The despair of all my lives is enough to shatter me forever. Since I was writing from the point of annihilation, I considered myself holier than ever. Golden soul in a broken world. From light and soil be born again. Resurrected, I disappeared into great wastelands.
this cardiac crisis you died twice once for desire once for this abyss the sunset skies like gashes spilling in red iris from my wrists it was a cardiac crisis that you had to bear witness to this again and again for desire you became burning warmth to stay alive like east village winter radiators you were Hyperion surviving by brief bonfires
“I have explored the Drowned Halls where the Dark Waters are carpeted with white water lilies...The true language of Moon / Wood is simple, stark imagery: moon, darkness, water, trees.”
the moon in the obsidian wood / the falcon in the tower / these are twilights reveries / the temple of darkness in the trees / in the red embers of evening / your absence consumes me / psalms of dark and dust from your shaking palms / eternities in Eden / in the meadow grasses beneath falling rains / a meteor god witnessed me burning to collapse
