THE ZERO YEAR …

THE ZERO YEAR

Trans-ferance.

Voice Of Angels

Voice Of Nothing

Voice Of Prophets

Voice

Of God

The Voice Of Self

The Waiting, (The Dead)

Receptacles…Shells

Of No Certainty. Never`Land.

Stuck in denial,

Traffic, Chaos

To tell the tale,

Trans-MIT dim echoes

Of ancient lies, eternal

Of night-sleep

Obscuring~Blinding

Dark.

For Forever Is Never A Forever

No Absolutes

No Signs

No Mistake

That upon this precipice

You dwell like the haunted man,

Year Zero Once Again

Handed down by the

Great King

Of Kings, rising falling

Forgetting

That upon this earth

Somewhere a child awakens,

Joyful & naive

Without fear.

_______________

WORLD ON FIRE

(From “The Resurrection Waltz, 2013)

Saxophone screaming.

Like jazz… morphine.

salvation…

running, thru the streets

To:

Refrain Refrain Refrain

To Begin ~ To End,

Proceed.

To, Some Where Some Way

Silence.

In Dead Lights And In Hyper-Space

And Unto The Holy Light of the

Last Cash Machine

As the Utopian Prophecy bleeds

Magnificent, Malevolent

In-To Thine Youthful Eyes Which Hears- Seas

Of Majestic rhymes & urban schemes,

A Salvation… Of Gun Shot Megaphone Deliverance

And Oh Unto Thee, We Deliver Great Hopes Of Miracles… Mercy.

Illuminations As Thy Cradles Rock Falsely

With The sad Arrogance Of Label Made Kings,

Offering Up All Your Dead sons,

father, mother, sisters, brothers

used up,

Mother-Fuckers

Who have killed the word, & the sound & whole world of grace

Monotonous with

“Hype”

With the smiles of Money~Greed Messiahs

Sampling Out Salvation, A Promise, A Lie,

All Their Words Now,

Just An Epiphany,

In A “Box”

Moving on down towards

South Of Heaven

Non-Transcendence Dead Enlightenment &

The Dead Roar Of Time

That says

“Nothing”

Nothing.

Fore-wards

Back-wards stealing From All the Lost Poets & the dead souls

With a weak childish snarl that says, “ME’ “MINE”

A place where no philosophers need apply.

With No More Gods To Worship &

No more new myths to create

As The Vessel Sinks,

Stinks,

Reeks Of Slamming bores

Rhyming Whores for all the same crimes

Yo.

Pants Un-Fit With weak words that will not survive

The Tides Of Time

And that shall never ever make it

Unto The Shore.

As one-day they will all say:

Kill Roy was here

And he wrote a poem upon the WALL

Which said this

“NOTHING”

Except that he was here.

With his Bling Props No Props No Echo Your Masses Asses Making

Hip Gang Signs & Buying Up Your Video Product

YO.

No Rebels left But Cowards Who just Sing The Song Of Thy Puppet Selves

Little Boys Of Violence With Little Swords That Cannot & Will Never Plow The Field

Of Men.

Because, with weapon in pants, they are shit. Who do not mend.

Hip?

Gone.

Now amongst us silent

Hop?

Dead

The very thought

That once we shit thru our veins, living

Lost,

Intolerable,

And MIA

As non aware un-alive

Follows when time is measured

monosyllabic and in waning days

For death recurrence

And numbers on papers, not soldiers

Become A Waste Of All That Is-Was Life.

But Can such an Armageddon

Accidental circumstances exist?

Life? Made of location and color

When the door of words is finally broken

With All levels un-covered

And Boring sets made of dead set repetition?

No.

Because every man

therefore may whisper in the wind,

tend to the madness,

up to him-self,

Disappear

in thy-self.

No.

That these are all faults

because every man

therefore may whisper in the wind,

Unto the vast world

Which is Now Dead

To Others.

Saxophone,

screaming…

(Once like jazz… morphine.. salvation… running, thru the streets)

A World On Fire

Which said something

That Mattered

Now dead.

________________

~ R.M. Engelhardt