1. |
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Laying up old sundry,
sealing in the must,
choking out the memory--
to be piled with dust,
Time for the soil to thaw
for new excavations
in perfect novelty,
writing invocations:
Out with the Old; In with the New
May gray give way to deeper blue
Out of the stale, funereal rot,
May wormwood rise above the plot
In widows' parlours,
sorting photographs
to make way for spring,
writing epitaphs,
We pour libations
from the old man's cask,
no longer needed.
Sprout from the grotesque.
As the most decrepit
can as well be picked clean,
from even coldest winters
always follows spring
|
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2. |
Ex Corpore Vermis
04:17
|
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|
In shadow, so enveloping,
exclusive to the eyeless,
practicing a secret love
among the giddy remnants
of a sentience,
gradually forgetting as life becomes meal,
dram by dram . . .
As a crystal forms
from primordia,
so settles most complex
of spiritual contemplation
of time unfathomable
to simple earth,
preparing for renewal,
a nurturing mound.
What fears it may have sang,
now lost in the wind.
Hour by hour
the agents of rot
mindlessly purify
the stratum of what once was,
and equally devoid of thought
will then move on. Most intimate of partners
in a fleeting pocket,
meet among the clay,
and then depart.
|
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3. |
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|
The bonfire of the world-tree burns -- O so high!
We feast upon the decadence of the embers
on their blasphemous journey to the sky,
Oh, what comfortable emptiness!
A funeral for meaningless fear,
A housewarming for the world,
Forward we now plunge, freedom dear!
Solace in the secular
Suffering and joy are in their own selves sacred.
Suffering and joy, we celebrate.
Paths will be taken, not of idle threats,
but of courage, strength and will,
As we slay the old gods,
rotting in their churches,
from their empty mountain perches,
Let reason ring!
As orphans, we march forward
to the interregnum.
New hope springs forth from beneath
the bottom of our grief.
|
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4. |
Dionaea Nervosa
03:02
|
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|
Waiting,
Sitting silent,
Pulling to the light,
until it comes,
Nimble prey,
fighting at the tendrils,
will grow tired,
Closing as a maw.
Sun-warmed organ,
Now a case,
Acting as a stomach,
Digesting as it rots,
What once flew.
From acrid moss below
and captive active meal,
breathing in the breath,
crushing all futile struggles
Posted,
Stationary,
Of the Earth my strength,
Nothing will uproot me
from the mother marsh.
|
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5. |
Mariposa del Sueño
01:40
|
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|
I have gorged, and I have forgotten,
from my silken shroud.
The fog recedes from new eyes,
as I swell against the walls, becoming.
The cold world will seep in from the seams.
The shock of chill on tender new skin,
Against mid-life's womb swell new wings.
From the pain of second birth,
I stretch and strain,
soon to take to the wind
in colors of a dream.
But the finest nectar will pressure this engine,
or the occasional luxurious corpse, ripe as an orange.
Fly away, the refuse of the past,
like so much roughage from jaws,
now fallen away.
Brief is the day.
|
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6. |
Sacred Vow
04:23
|
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|
The laws of man frolic frivolous,
like petulant toys,
against the graver union of souls.
By night, I'll weep.
I'll sleep against the Warm Body,
symbol of my giving over,
willingly, everything.
May Death not part us; May We through endless spectra
endure in understanding, compromise, and mutual strength.
What is a passer-by
or a friend or acquaintance
next to what we have?
By strength and beauty,
we could slay the Serpent of the World.
In perfect trust, I sacrifice myself.
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7. |
A Summer's Canto
06:09
|
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|
I, in my memory, with tribute march
to balmy days, when you were young and strong.
Before the fire, we would dance and sing,
and liberated animals become.
The sun gave way to glorious red dusk.
Old age and death but allegories were.
We laughingly would muse upon the husk
of Day's red orb descending from the air.
Now you are earth, and we lament above
how unfair-briefly we could share your love,
but treasured are the times when hearts were one,
and you could bask among us in the sun.
My smallest friend, who left us all behind,
May always you remain inside my mind.
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Bat House Publishing Lexington, Kentucky
Creative outlet of the Lexylvania death rock scene, Bat House Publishing is a quest for the most complete diy alternative to corporate manufacturing and distribution possible.
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