Cain: The Wretched

A work in progress, based on the infamous story and the late Byron's short play.

Cain: The Wretched

I loved my father

and he loved me,

though not as much

as he did my brother,

and I loved

my mother

and she loved me,

though not as much

as she did

He.

My name is Cain;

my parents; swain,

swore fealty only

to our Lord,

and embitter’st I

who did defy,

could not love thy

who did abhor

my parentage

and punish my kin;

innocent

and who I loved so great

and in time

my misunderstanding

slowly ripened unto hate.

We made our paradise

just east of Eden,

though never knowing why

we were cast out

initially, and thusly

sentenced certainly to die.

But my parents; strong in

faith and mind, thought

better than to rescind,

and bore our burden

graciously with the hopes

we’d be forgiven.

The clay was old and

tough to our toes, unyielding

to our tools, as we toiled

underneath a blazing sun

and our sweat, around us,

pooled.

Our suffering was not new to

us; we worked hard and

without rest, but was novel

to my parentage, who, had prior

been so blessed.

They wiped their brow

with a sturdy hand, a

smile alight their face,

with a suggested keenness

that seemed to show

they sought honour from

His grace…

On Piety

The world is a funny sort of strange place, where one who declares to have descended from Godhead is in turn crucified for their 'sin'.
Jesus Christ,
Jeanne D'Arc...
All exalted, executed
Your salvation comes at last

On Art

It is a vestige of life in a dying breath.

As with all artists, imperceptibly, creating (or conjuring) works becomes a process of growth. It is like nourishment, through which the artist grows and develops- divulging all their education, influence and personal experience to a pinnacle, at that point, but which is then, after being regurgitated, eaten up by the individual for sustenance and sustainability. We, (that is, the artist) as mother, pluck the worm to feed our young; who we also embody through our desire to pluck greater worms, feed greater impulses and sire our own brood. Both one and the other, we feed ourselves to grow hungry. In the appropriation of all evidences, we bloom in a way that allows a temporary permanency to our works, in that they exist for a time in a relation to us that is unchangeable, i.e. permanent, because once born they are not returned, but rather, juxtapose a creator and source of origin which is in a state of inertia: always spinning, and with each revolution, succumbing to X amount of extraneous forces to the Nth degree, so that, by time we are again faced with our brood, we are no longer worthy of the name 'creator', because we are no more that being, but rather the destroyer, like Saturn, who will feed on them to ensure our fate is not met to face us, but that we may change our destiny- death- and through perennial birth, live forever. In like accord, we change, as so do the things we create, until they are all brought together to create the sum of all things which extends almost beyond our singular devotion to our cause; we are ineluctably always moving, though the signs we leave behind may remain in place forever. Art stands as a token of higher reality: a perspective of truth: the culmination of expectation and reason at that instant in time; given from an unchanging certitude, all at once from the hands of an entity full of temporary fascinations who is born to die.

An ever resounding echo from a caller who has long since passed.

Another thought, in passing

I sat at a table, a book aboard and pen in hand, a drink not far away. I proceeded to write a little, and read thereafter. Though little has been 'published' online, truly, much has been done, as I've concentrated efforts on the completion of my novel as well as the passing of time through the immediate immersion of complicit drunkenness, recklessness and good, albeit bad, company. Here's a little off the 'top of my head'.

O!
How I'd love to be
a pugilist,
were I not
always
reeling drunk
and writing poetry.


                                                                                     *

Me?
I guess
I'm a gross mess;
all smoke,
sweat, spit, blood, shit,
cum and stale piss.
Hardly walking,
rather balling;
a junky in need of a fix:
anything, just another
something
to add to my list.
Could you,
Would you ever believe
that I yearned for
more than this?
Consumption's a sweet,
sour, sugary, bitter
sort of bliss.

Matrimony

A golden band!
A golden band!
How I long to wear you
on my left hand,
upon my third finger
you would fit,
but to fall in love
is a prerequisite
and what a shame
that you could not linger
alike the words of
some old sinner,
buried deeply,
reverentially,
casting a light upon all I see.
Without the golden band
I am not complete:
a man in half,
ergo; only half as wise,
half as happy
and only half my size.
Make me bigger!
Make me a man!
Won't you place that ring
upon my hand and
proffer your love, eternally,
enveloping I, as an
island's seas.