R.D.M. & R.D.X.

Fires

Huddled stone to melt copper and tin, iron and more.

They stand like houses.

The Forge.

We are like to this.

Like to metals in fire and stone.

Companionship and love, bonding and connection.

These are our small fires within.

We are thrust into and pulled out of many.

Beaten by life and dumped in a cold bucket.

But these fires though they make us soft for a moment only add to the depth of our strengths.

Though we are not swords.

Still.

These warm huddled moments.

These times of togetherness.

The moments we share.

These are our fires.

Without these i fear we may become brittle over enough time.

To hard and unyielding to cope leading us to break.

He, who collects the wayward souls of Man.

Climb aboard this wayward vessel ye wandering spirits.

This boat this paddle of will drives forth.

This raft, this ferry drawing the tides of man.

See from This Vessel.

Oh the Chariot of the Sun.

A Reagant of Radiance

The wandering fool some would say, or call to him as a king of rags.

A man without aim.

A God without Eyes.

Living in the splendour of itself.

Seeking the ultimate pleasures of consumption.

In the pure romantic sense of the word consumption.

To consume another's company, time and radiant presence.

To consume all things and make them one with yourself.

Oh these, the loathsome ways of a taintless cur.

The seamless parralels of chaos and order.

As my tongue slides across the surface of your cheek in jest and sorrow, as an answer to your desperate seeking you'll see.

Answers are always the same only questions change you see.

Asking is seeking in falsehood, through speech.

How could God be sure of what is, and of what it is and how it all works if it's nature is in power over all things, in the whimsy, or will rather toward perfection and improvement or change?

So.

"I'm not sure"

Is the divine answer.

It's the best you'll get at any time.

For the sprawling infinity even if bound to a form walking as a presence of matter still couldn't call to know what is, beyond a moment of lapsing judgement and surging pride, yet even that is human flaw, in so being, restricted only to us they say.

Made In the Image.

It is a limitless perfection framed as imperfection by imperfections mere implication.

I call to it as such and so it rings like chimes and bells, it hits like the impact of a body thrown from a bell tower or a castle parapet.

With a sad but realistic crunch.

More now than ever have you seen God.

Here through vain grasping at whisps of transient concepts like wisdom I claw out from the space between you and I the few words any could ever hear that would bleed the messianic, nihilistic wholism of gods truth which can never be the same as yours or theirs.

You could ken this independence only through disconnection just to find yourself thinking with gods mind walking in the makers footsteps backward toward the sheer quantum nature of this deeper truth of pure dependence.

I rest in the bosom of your fate and of mercy, come and see.

You now, are a Worm picked at by a bird with two heads called God whose necks lead down into the same torso, the same stomach.

In the hands of judgement, already, from birth.

That my death in this world would not be my first and sure as light it would be as far from my last as the pluto is from the sun, should be a staple of action.

I speak through well paced motions of eminance that swell to crash as waves of sound in the core of all souls.

You would hear me still only as a buffer to translate the infinite back to itself.

Like now I'm screaming at you begging you to tell me how I feel and laughing as you pass on the message that I know will only find its way back to my ears.

Okay?

So I get the message, be quiet.

Forget your faith and posturing, the dust on your knees serve as bruises in our eyes.

Gott Mitt Uns I heard them say once.

That God is with us, here.

Where so much is none of your business through a lack of understanding and attention you are removed from the need to comprehend the in so being all your notions toward that are pretenses for love and acceptance so instead love and acceptance is what you're gifted.

As for this, that you call God and all the infinity majesty of creation.

We see your unwillingness to know through your feigned curiosity that is mostly delegated to the seekers and the pscion.

Can I sit at your table then and eat the food you've prepared?

Can i sleep in your bed and lounge in your hall?

Where is God?

What is God?

All These questions are all the same.

Only answers change because they have nothing to do with truth.

The answers are all dependant on them and you, not on the truth.

Madness is what you tend in these efforts, rather than piety.

Why posture?

We must experience to know..

Questions lead us nowhere.

Only through and into the storm of themselves.

See it sprawled out writhing violently before you.

Feel it rain down gently on your skin.

If you want to know you need to stop pretending.

All these names that you call things, you as humanity, made up yourself.

It's not what they are.

How much of what is in me deserves to be measured by what's in you and vice versa.

I would draw you by my chord out of preference too, if it made pretending as easy for me as all this seems to make it for you.

I too could call a Lion a Lioness if I thought lying would make people love me.

If I felt like insulting intelligences and the Glory of the Lion.

Still I don't and still I don't.

So Still, I Don't.

I just do.

Though I mentioned once that I don't believe in God and now they tell me that it's a sign of low self esteem.

I guess we're all lacking confidence at the moment but that might be a good thing for now.

As the sun is destined to rise and take its place among the daytime sky as a radiant light.

So too are you destined to shine.

You cannot run from it or tarry behind the mountains.

The dance of the cosmos draws you upward no less than it does the sun in the morning my child.

Move with it and you will find strength.

Move against it and you will find struggle.

I’d tear at the roof of heaven to look for some higher breed of words to explain this.

But it would always come out as something like

You make my brain numb.

Or even as you make my brain dumb.

I’ve never felt so much or thought so much of someone that I just had no way to say it.

I don’t know any word for this.

I don’t know any picture or symbol nor glyph nor shape.

It’s just this cessation of function in my brain.

Or is it in between my brain and my mouth or hands.

As if suddenly everything I do and say becomes so much more important because you’re involved.

Like I suddenly care about what comes out of my mouth because you might hear it.

I suddenly care about how my drawing might look.

Or when we talk and connect suddenly I feel strong as if I don’t have any anxiety so I can do things like I used to.

I’m suddenly not weighed down by all of this pain.

Because there’s something good to balance it.

Something that is so pleasant, so undescribably soothing that it counter balances the negatives I deal with.

You.

But you have no idea how it feels to not be able to say it or what I feel when I say “you” .

My experience of you is wholly different to yours.

I try so hard so often to find words for this.

Like i’m fading and rotting.

It’s from the way I’ve been robbed of patience and positives.

The way I’ve been washed in hatred and taken on mistakes as lobotomies.

Buried alive under the weight that’s on top of me.

Burning the fire to escape the isolation, the shame and monotony.

Every day is the same scraping and blazing, coughing till i feel the pain in my esophagus and i’m laid in a sarcophagus. 

I’m just a Zombie raised in the Apocalypse.

Faded on that OFTEN shit, get a star boy to explain to them what often is.

Basically lost and wandering a monster chasing a brain, or brains and flesh on flesh as in sex and rotten things.

As in next to godliness.

As in yes, the obvious.

As in yes get on with it

As in lets not waste a second longer then and honor it.

In between each pant we’re desperate for a longer breath.

As in between each dance we’re searching for some sense of honest depth.

For love and connection through humble affections.

If i stumble from tension then I crumble from rejection.

I feel stuck under the memories then fucked from just remembering what it feels like to be made to feel like i’m nothing and there is nothing here for me but fucking emptiness.

When the dying men of yesterday ask how the children of today became monsters..

..we will explain that we inherited this terrible kind of love that we became from the back of your hands.

You raised the devil , one punishment at a time.

What we learned was suffering, how to create it and how we could justify it.

She is a .45 special spinning in the palm of my hand.

She draws herself close about your head like a crown of thorns.

Extends a soft hand in kindness.

One to the Temple.

Then she offers you a choice between the two roads ahead.

One to the Temple

or

One to the Temple.

She whispers of ruin.

Quick!

Run!

She Screams.

Where?

Our world is sick.

The poisoners are filling their pockets off it, stealing stocks and coffers.

The land is being poisoned.

The people are being poisoned.

Crack, Heroine, Amphetamines, Cocaine.

We don’t make them here.

We don’t make them here.

The drugs and the poisoners, we don’t make them here.

Our children are sick.

Our community too.

There’s a smear of red across the face of our Hall.

There’s a hand of blood dipped in a bucket of gold.

The coins chiming in their pockets will make the same noise when we pile it on top of them where they lie dead in their coffins.

The bees keep it with them

They nestle it in the flowers And tree's

Àsk the tree's too

If They're proud of their seeds.

Àsk the lynx he thinks he is a lion, no prouder could be.

Still ask the men àt war, not so proud of their grief.

Or the mothers who mourn sowing flowers in wreaths.

Ask the poet is he proud of his Piece?

Or the local gangsters, are they proud of their street?

Ask the police are they proud of their Beat?

Or the rappers with the shine are they proud of their gleam?

Or the Fishers with their Lines are they proud of their seats.

Ask the king as the Sun rises proud, if now he can see.

Ask the Children of Merlin if Now they'd believe.

Ask the children of Berlin if now they can breathe.

Ask the the heavens bearing down if now we can dream.

There's only one source of power in the Universe.

Sometimes people they get scared and confused.

Other times they get a lot of big ideas about themselves.

Like how they think they are God.

How they think there is no God.

How they think there is no Power beyond their own power.

They don't really think that though, they are just afraid that they can't accept it.

At the end of the day it is what it is.

The glory of creation is before us at all times.

The One True Power withholds nothing from us.

To know the flowers, we smell the flowers.

All things are so.

To know our limits we test them.

We stretch our arms toward the heavens and this is righteous for where else but gathered around the throne of god could we belong?

Amongst the heavens.

Where else could we belong?

For all those who would tie men to the dust and bind them to their woes there is a punishment worse than death.

Service.

For the witch who would slay her first born and mar the flesh of lovers there is a punishment worse than death.

Consumption.

The legion of light takes no prisoners.

I heard them say everybody is gods children.

I guess in that respect we got the short stick.

If so what does that make me out of us few.

The unlucky one I guess.

Here's me, the unfortunate son of god.

They couldn't be happier to talk about it all.

It makes them look and feel so good that the dice rolled this way.

Even most of the rest of mine are content with the way the dice fell.

They would all be relieved for so little is required from them.

Yet I would be burdened now.

Shunned for the same inheritance of glory.

Misunderstood even by the nature of freedom.

Mislabeled by the consistent efforts of ignorance.

Baring scars I never earned like those suffering from the fabled stigmata.

To be baptised from the grail.

To walk forever as the shadow of god where I might stay apon the earth when he lifts his feet.

Yet union is my presence in essence and the stretching noon markings of the very hand of the highest itself even now as I speak.

I would be breathed through and spun like silk into swords then back at forth at the infinite whim.

I would lay on the lions skin rug before the hearth in the house.

I would tear down mountains in my sleep but never rest or dream.

Then they would see me crucified for their sins.

As if I were any more Gods son than any of these men are.

As if their death in my place would be any less cleansing.

AF & HEMAH beg me for testimony and even the would be father speaks with the dragons tongue to demand I bare witness in his name.

So I must.

So I shall.

So shall we all.

I sat with him at the edge of the void.

Talking about how empty it alls seemed out there.

He said it was almost disheartening to see.

The void was so infinite then.

So waiting to be filled.

The stars, some of them waiting to born still.

The dragons crawling out of the hot stone toward the sky.

We agreed on one thing.

That there was a lot of emptyness still and that that filled us both with emotions.

For him it was a pain.

For me it was a rush.

I could see how much we could still do.

How much we could still make.

There would never be an end to this.

We would be pushing and stretching toward infinity forever.

Some how that gave me energy.

Some how that gave me hope.

We had nothing but time and space.

I just want to drill you with compliments.

I want to see you smile and live your life in honest bliss.

I need you.

I need you to keep going.

I need you to breathe slow and remember peace in the commotion.

I need for you to keep hoping.

I need you to see through the smoke.

Through the mirrors and ghosts into the clearing.

We’re home, but stuck at home with the fear of unknown things.

We’re stuck opposed not hearing the tones the seer has composed like i’m here on my own, no steering just floating.

There’s no feeling emotions , no tears or joy just years of noise buzzing here in the void.

Here in the Abyss where the Aether’s an Ocean and the Words you see make up the sea that we float in.

These words that once i would speak and she easily quoted.

Words that she keeps like she creeps on a poet, stealing each sonnet like she sweeps through the cosmos hands reaching deep in your pockets, into your coffers and where you sleep in your coffins.

She bleeds you of weakness of greed and of softness.

It seems i could see the difference between us then lost it once i could see what it wasn’t yet it all seems to cost us is a moment of speech filled with honesty so we could see that it’s not a dream.

I keep quiet a lot of the time because I wonder what it is to speak.

Ahh..

..to speak.

To Speak!

To Speak?

..oh.

& how to speak!?

& what would I say.

What would i speak for even?

& why?

How much of what’s in me deserves to be mixed with what’s in you?

With what’s in the world?

Do I value it yet?

If not should it come out my mouth?

Perhaps not.

Yet some times it might still.

When if in speaking I am heard and you value it more than I did then it seem rather, that I am misheard.

Then, it seems to become a problem.

Then in speaking I am not truly heard for what I feel or think has not been said yet though still I have spoken.

Then it becomes apparent that what I have said should not have been said.

What I feel and think has not be heard all that has been heard is what I have said.

So, I am at a loss, grasping at how to speak.

For if I have not yet decided on how to live then how could I know how to speak?

If I have not yet decided on how to be or how to move through the world then how could I know how to speak?

So you see to speak has always been a problem.

To speak..

..and how to speak.

Then to learn about languages, even more!

To know, that with these other words come another way of mind.

So then to speak on what I feel, this might not be easier said in my native tongue than it would be in another’s.

Again, so how would I know how to speak if I were to know something like this?

Then it would seem that I’d not yet know even how to think and in feeling I may be mature but with thinking or in speaking I would come across an infant in the conveying of these emotions.

It makes me wonder again how to speak at all or why even.

Should I speak at all?

But to not speak would be worse.

All that remains without speech is confusion and the actions that come from this confusion that arises from our lack of speech.

&

Then to be heard!

How to be heard?

How could you be heard if you didn’t know how to speak or to speak, how would you ever be heard?

Yet if i were talking that whole time aiming to be heard yet not knowing how to speak?

Well, then i wouldn’t be heard.

Though i would still be making noise!

Loud specific noise that causes loud specific reactions.

Like Poseidon some how swimming against the waves in a storm, thrashing against himself.

I would be lost in the knowing of that noise.

That i did this.

That this is me echoing and flowing around me.

It would be like walking through the corridor’s of a house that is made up of the echoes of your own words..

.. you can hear them in the walls, in the creaky floor boards.

This is it, this is me.

Then how to speak becomes more of a problem.

Knowing like god knows, that this world is made up of the word.

You understand the depth of what It is to speak now, from this knowing.

How important it is to speak.

To know how to speak, to know TO speak..

..and when to speak.

I once had a conversation with my brother about one of his many sons.

About the simple way.

The grace of nature and it's many boons.

This life is simple.

To understand the divine regents, the source of all things and all things themselves is simple if you live with your heart.

He remarked on how this was a glorious trait both our children shared.

I agreed.

As simple as a moment could be.

The smelling of a rose.

Of all the glorious children that came forth from the houses of heaven we saw a similarity between the greatest.

It lay in the gentle bosoms of flowers.

Boys who grew into men then forged empires and farmers alike all found the truth of the divine in the scent of a flower.

We called these children the romantics.

They sought in love to respond to love in their honest and immediate natures.

So too to a flower or a fruit tree or vine would they naturally respond.

In depth.

To learn from honest intent to love all of that which could be learned, to then know how best to respond in kind through preference.

So to a tree that they would take fruit from they would plant and water many seeds or feed the tree that bore them fruit or both.

So too to any vine or bush.

Then more deeply they would question, still from intent to love and respond to love with love.

Who planted the first of these seeds?

Who lay the earth down for the seeds to be planted or the sun in the sky for them to grow.

Who moves the clouds still even, they questioned.

From this they grew.

Into mighty souls beyond compare, resplendent in their glory which was naught but of all creation perfectly reflected in them.

Toward knowledge and enlightenment they moved with haste with the winds of love, passion and curiosity filling their sails.

It was then that we called an end to our war.

It was then that we decided that in time we would walk among them again to raise them up as once we had before.

Said the lion to the angel, could you hold me down?

Would you let me hold you as the cold wind blows through this lonely town..

Would you hold together this molten soul or will it just slowly burn this whole thing down..

I can’t control this now it’s glowing.

No, growing now, my souls to proud.

I’m burning inside yearning for sight.

Still I’m frozen with doubt.

It shows in my sound.

It shows in the way I’ve been moping around, alone in my house.

I feel like a ghost caught here in limbo floating about like smoke or the clouds.

So we should skip the intro, pretend you know me for now.

I Been on Davy Jones’ ship for a while slowly moulding.

Now and then slowly just drowning

Full of the cold and doubt I told you.

Full of something rotten something moulded, and something godly, something molten something so old and proud that’s slowly rolling down the slopes of a holy mountain.

It’s known.

She wrote about it.

He spoke about it.

You see it enthroned around you carved in the posing shapes of a hundred thrones and fountains.

We know it now.

This loss of love, from heavens peak, gods above, even they throw it down.

Find the brightest star and throw it out so it falls as foe glowing, and crashing, sewing hope into this holy mountain.

Bubbles up as wroth, as wrath and neither shields of red nor blue can slow it now.

It’s flow is sound, it pours like warriors hearkened to the blowing of horns and drumming of drums as if both were sounded.

It ripples with resonance that defies all tonal boundaries.

It’s Joshua at Jericho tearing all these old things down with only the sounds of groans and woeful howls.

That’s the why I’m scared of this whole thing now.

It’s love.

It’s war.

It’s a love for war.

Or a war for love.

If it was a war of gore and blood I would own it proudly.

The cause of doves is all claws and blood it’s better said than known, there’s more for us.

It’s better read than wrote what’s wrenched from hope by the cause of lust.

It’s better said than wrote, the cause of us.

Of course of us all, the cause of all of us.

It’s better said with a rose than a storm in a cup.

If it’s better left to the warmth of the rum in the end when it all falls to dust then I’ll be cutting down the mountain to shorten the summit.

Now to me this town looks so morbid it’s all filled with lovers.

Feel my urge to shoot down the sun just to shorten the summer.

I’m lonely looking for someone who could walk with the sun but only call it the sun.

Who could walk through the storm without warping or rusting and calling it blood.

I’m trying to maintain through the pain not change from the stains or the strain that’s why I’ve stayed in one place.

For now I’m restrained, I’m maintaining my pace, I can’t race, I can’t wait.

I can’t make space for faith or excuses.

I can’t make room unless it’s to take in improvements, even those I can’t explain though, they’re weighed in new units.

Can you take in the nuesance and nuance the same?

Would you see me the same if you knew of the pain.

The truth of who I wasn’t and who I became.

It’s most likely that you’d move on enraged if I knew all I claimed.

If you had even seen my secrets or read a clue off the page.

If you knew of the stages, a few of the plays, the patient gold leafing, of the leaf that flew off the page, if you knew of the paige.

I am the abyss.

The void spewing out infinity, don’t limit me liar.

Don’t mimic me either.

Don’t be ignorant of the instances please know I don’t need your sympathy.

What I need is simple, sweet.

Like what you need.

It’s simple.

It’s Heat.

To breathe.

Fire.

Light.

A minute of infinite peace.

Something to do.

Something to eat.

Someone to hold.

Something to be.

Someone that see’s me..

.. that isn’t me

I don’t why I can’t seem to be this thing I need.

My fingers are bleeding plucking strings on this instrument amongst a symphony of being.

I can’t be less me or someone else lest I become someone’s self.

Someone else.

Yet as a man, apparently I can’t be loved unless I become someone’s help.

A rumbles felt.

If I stumble helps not coming, the sum will tell, loves a thing I’ve never done myself.

My younger self a drunken sun that none would shelter quickly becomes something that’s someone else.

I’ve shifted into something else, something humble yet something selfish.

I found a way to hear the hidden things that no one tells me.

Could you bear the pain of knowledge or in the excess of it’s weight, in time, to feel so wealthy?

I don’t feel so healthy, see I fear it’s hell here.

It’s all I’ve felt for years, this melting.

- R. D. M. & R. D. X.