Anagon (le nom d’Albe)

Under bruised eyes – over orange skies of Babalon,
Converted fields where beast is stirred; old dawn
Awakens. In the bringing of an up to down,
Red to white to brown somehow
Suspiciously reflects the fruits of labour I collect,
Love best kept beneath the belt in basic buckle sheath.
Tranquil, as the fire beyond this wall, the column’s vein
In all we know are temporary temples, methods of escape
We feel predate us.

So kneel that I may worship;
Ravage that I might take.
I am open now. Awakened.
And waiting.

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Raw Egg & Psychoactives

6th, as in all acts of worship. Silence drains the walls and draws its lot;
A heavy pour starts spreading – what it means to summon god is now
Just show for other not in hearing to appear, exhaust and immaterial.
Like the sum of fear, and then nearly – determined enough to resist:
The oz it watches over me, makes chap of chafe and handles me in
Mastery, assent. Its breath communicating age in bouts of puff;
Smeared out, and searching. So that where the most would end,
He is beginning – ripe with the breadth of world, the width of
Heart – a size of hold in pointing out: this biblical proportion.
Green upon a devil’s eye, bountiful and smiling. Teeth made
Round by biting down on all that does surround me and, in
Efforts to restrain his thought, bring something like a want
To out into this dark of night, this stuck of being. There’s a
Presence in these words, clearest message in this rubbing –
That by force still feels confusing; by comparison, too soon.

Weth (and the things that need to end.)

It was by light he slept,
Curved to the point of bend and
Threatening to break all straights apart.
As from one line that we shared –
Old words we preferred to bring forward
Renamed, removed of their weight, of our shame –
Any breath could become from our labour, libate.
Intending to bear or bring fruit to the room,
Roots to our feet – excuse to our conscience.
It was by light I saw him sleep,
Six now morning and stain-deep in sheets of
Loss and comfort. Ever warm in every other
Whitish corner of my body, still destroyed and still
Recovered to a smallest sense of self, modest not
Withstanding sole to shoulder where we lie.
From dead to alive – abused to experienced –
Upon this light where things must end.

Cez (the anticorruption drive)

Bear me home – and not for long it says –
By dome of this moronic church the ways
Your anger swings are both the path we take,
And punishment. It is a curse to see this clearly,
It is in fact the loss at stake that barely holds it
Close, pulls the edge together; like the puzzle
We suppose could come apart at seams, make
It seem like we deserve the hints of pressure
Struck our way. Dead for taste is dead for rest
In this sad state, this slim condition. Which
Is why we learn to fake or stage the break,
Give-up the load, abandon senses to the
Need, the mouth we’re breathing in.
Who we kill are who we’re living for,
And somewhere in this paradox,
Exhaustion’s just another form of
Break norm in all preventing,
All disparaging event, non-
Typical prevention of a
Most demanding drive
Pretending accidents
Are hazards – cez a
Rare disaster and
Us here, merely
Dead in passing.

Uomo-Lupo (divinità infera)

Again I promise my healthy self:
You will not do this when the weather changes,
The shape of things becomes a mist you take,
As all, too seriously. Again I feel myself escape.
Once a werewolf, always a werewolf I say: for
How could I possibly turn back on a life of
Blood, shedding fur and all, and expect mere
Brotherhood in return, a collection of vile and
Inviolate thought, love in spite of transformation
Into something more than taking off a skin to
Otherkin, stirring earth intending to proclaim
Me of its own? To refuse a gift takes more than
Saying no to it. Accepting of the thanks I get –
More often than regretting it – is shoulder
I look over just to see the beast in chase,
These ills in motion. Gone to so much
I see: the body to deliver me:
Dismembered and, intact.

Mithradates (men in dread clothing)

I deserve, I discover. I am complimented by no other
than the stranger I become, sleeping prophet in the
making of the thousands I ignore, trends I let now
pass me so tomorrow I may claim, through the poverty
I wear, their indignation – met upon the spirit of let give,
make die; cause things to step aside for all you preach
(in argive speech) and bring us change, enact unholy
celebration. Rites in bathes and bearers of a blood
I feel transformed, ancient form of transmutation
that for all my immune skin springs back – marked
from the storm I signal, mercurial with my symbols
and obsessed with the recovery. Red over the body
of the bandage I resent, broken self it represents
yet holds to for the image – of posterity.

Vazem Veimary

Vaz laszar dev vàres feqe
Vaz laszar dev tuszede ame ivz vazem iszar meginde
Ivz inde-bétarý vazone
Ivz vazem-vinarèmíg úr len barè
Ivz len velarè sëm vazem velare
Szarq ivz bétar naszim egyedés
Menz ivz bét, menz ivz bétar vaz-egyedim

Ivz vètar se bétar farastim
Valiz vaz w ivz
Bétar-se egész ivzés?
Ivz vèt-bétartén egész vazés
W ivz tàle, itz tàle
Se bétar valiq, vaz bétar valiq tárgyem ivz sëm vètè vàlymei
Har ivz vinszar, hog’ivz odszar bétar vazés-egyenem
W ivzas drage, ivz vazem veimarý
W ivzas drage, ivz vazem veimarý

W res irszarè ëv?
Vàle novem-irdarè nagy-hos
W ivz evem-evzar im qott tén ivz naszim egyedés vazone, nye
W ivz qetar se-lasze irsze
Szarq egész úr-irdùt bétar ivzas uverim, feqùt w har irdùthát meginde

Ivz vètar se bétar farastim
Valiz vaz w ivz
Bétar-se egész ivzés?
Ivz vèt-bétartén egész vazés
W ivz tàle, itz tàle
Se bétar valiq, vaz bétar valiq tárgyem ivz sëm vètè vàlymei
Har ivz vinszar, hog’ivz odszar bétar vazés-egyenem
W ivzas drage, ivz vazem veimarý
W ivzas drage, ivz vazem veimarý