God Save You
When shadow forms itself within you;
when you snuff out all your stars;
when you’re swimming in the mud, most fetid, most infected,
most miserable, most macabre, mostly made of mostly death,
most bestial, most arrested,
you have not fallen yet,
you have not rolled to the deepest depth, yet…
if in the cavern of your chest, most overlooked, most remote,
most secret, most arcane, darkest, emptiest,
meanest, and demoted
psalms of sadness there be sung,
biting down on anguish and heartache,
one part still pulses, moans an angel, chirps a nest of blushings,
and you feel a knot of anxiety.
Those who are born tenebrous;
those who are and will be larvae:
those who are hindrance, danger, contagion. Those who are Satan,
the damned, and those who never stopped short, never always,
never same, never never—
will not regenerate,
do not auscultate themselves in their nights,
do not weep for themselves…
they who present themselves commanding, satisfied—as rules,
as molds, as a stud to bolt things down, as standard unit of weight,
as load-bearing beam—
And they do not feel the desire,
for that which is healthy, for that which is pure
not one wretched moment, not one wretched instant,
in their arcane brain.
To him who “Tsks” his shadows,
to him who taciturn wanders;
to him who bears upon both his backs—like an unavoidable weight,
like the punishing weight of a hundred cities, for a hundred years;
of a hundred generations of delinquents—
his stubborn obfuscation;
to him who suffers night and day—
and through his sleep still suffers—
like the grace of a spiked belt, like a bone stuck in the throat,
like a nine-inch nail inside the brain, like a ringing in the ears,
like a relentless callus,
the notion of his own miseries,
the great burden of his passion:
to him I bow my head, I bend my knee;
I kiss the bottom of his feet; I say: God save you…
Dark Christ, stinking saint, Job within,
infamous cup of pain!