#existentialcelestial

fragments: no. 102017

from the vault: no. 050417

https://www.instagram.com/p/CCYm8wYBQNX/

ARTxLIT: Hozier x Gustave Coubert —

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I’ll crawl home to her

Hozier, from “Work Song”

• hoshiana • — and so the prophecy: a long road to Golgotha—mournful, dark, and lonely. still, you, traversing the palm-laden path, carried by a small frail beast. somewhere between here and in tomorrow and then the next, the shouts of praise will fade into mere echoes. perhaps, no more. three days of weeping. Valley of bones. a tomb. - Hoshiana. hear my prayer, O LORD of hosts. - even the sparrows find a home amidst the haze of migration, and so your presence is an altar, the loveliest discovery for these tired hands to lay upon. a day in your presence despite my deepest valley is more abundant than a thousand elsewhere, a thousand years, a thousand companions. - Hoshiana. i behold you, the one who have gone before me, us, anyone, and everyone. - Hoshiana. you are in the tomorrow where the light is warm in its wild conflagration. - Hoshiana. You are He who was, and is, to come. — j. p. berame | palm sunday | @existential-celestial

• #February #poem • – to respire with the gentle breathings of February: in the gasping, in the shortness of breath, i walk the boundaries of tender collapsing: – a little flock that trampled the snakes and serpents that made a nest in my head; – an assemblage of hurt intertwined with the cascades of my hair. – i gather my thoughts—these poison blooms—ready for the reaping. – i listen to my own bones praying (the fire of the sky’s truth speaking): – “Behold, you have loved much therefore much you can forgive.” – eyes be opened, dear heart: we are all little children under the soft wings of light. . . . − j. p. berame // no. 030617 . . . 🎨 Dante Gabrielle Rosetti, "La Ghirlandata" (1873)

• #poem • - Peniel - this drowning drought towards a precipice i cannot name, the sharpness of nothing but this quiet invitation: to get alone and be opened by the Wild Man of every firmament; - from the river of August to the daybreak of this present, i am wrestling— skin to skin and sweat to sweat —with the very face of the Sky. - what of this struggle? who is to overcome? what is the other side of this bloodied endurance? - here is the freedom here is the Name. here is the Kingdom. - behold: the sinews of my mourning pulled and wrenched apart, touched by the hands of Heaven— - God, my God, this wound too shall be a blessing - —i rise and strain towards eternity, limping to a kinder, softer season. . . . — j. p. berame // no. 0119-2019

“...eyes are faultless, clear as any river, unimpeachable as a landscape.” — The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje