No one could imagine the suffering,
the spear that entered the flesh
before the final killing had taken place
Impaled on a hill
Hung for all to see
Naked,decapitated and castrated
mocked, scorned, tortured and pierced
You knew it would come,
the agonizing days before the final hour
Denial, anger, admission and acceptance
Sacrifice
Yet there could be no preparation
No annointment, no blessing, no embrocation
no consecration, no smearing, no rubbing
no daubing or abrogation
Only a searing of the flesh and the burning
of the bones
Bright festering ulcers, a putrid scene
Tears of brine, weeping for the masses
Infinite evil must be met with infinite good
For there is no escape of true suffering
There is no means to deflect the inexhaustible hate
It consumes the souls of demented men,
as it inflames the mind and devours the spirit
Writhing in rage it seeks to destroy all that is fine
The rape of innocence, the desecration of a child
For those who experience, it plays tricks upon the head
Cries for the father, curdling screams and very desperate pleas
But there is no respite until the terminal act is done
Gasping, choking, panting, heaving, weaving, gulping, wheezing and ejaculating
The release, the escape, the elusion
the departure from the earth
To a berth somewhere far above the talus, beyond the hammock
and atop the mighty billet
Redemption, atonement and reclamation, you can be the judge
but these are the ways of the world, the terrene on the material sublunary terrain
Such a furious, madcap state of affairs
Yet there is no elopement, no fadeout, no hegira
for only the worthy are left outward on the lam
Triumph in torment, the winning of the war
Lord god is there no other way to think about it
With your head pinned to the wall it is only possible to swallow the barrel of a gun
Blood splattered everywhere, soft tissue and gray matter splattered
high above the wall
But you know that there will be union,
a sacred reacquaintance of friends
Deep in the heart of an immaculate boy,
the reparation, the renewal and redress
Because this is the only way it could be,
the solitude, the detachment and lonesomeness
The victory of martyrdom, self-sacrifice and immolation,
gleaming high in the sky, glowering distant blue
But oh how tragic it is, is it possible that there could be another wile
the spear that entered the flesh
before the final killing had taken place
Impaled on a hill
Hung for all to see
Naked,decapitated and castrated
mocked, scorned, tortured and pierced
You knew it would come,
the agonizing days before the final hour
Denial, anger, admission and acceptance
Sacrifice
Yet there could be no preparation
No annointment, no blessing, no embrocation
no consecration, no smearing, no rubbing
no daubing or abrogation
Only a searing of the flesh and the burning
of the bones
Bright festering ulcers, a putrid scene
Tears of brine, weeping for the masses
Infinite evil must be met with infinite good
For there is no escape of true suffering
There is no means to deflect the inexhaustible hate
It consumes the souls of demented men,
as it inflames the mind and devours the spirit
Writhing in rage it seeks to destroy all that is fine
The rape of innocence, the desecration of a child
For those who experience, it plays tricks upon the head
Cries for the father, curdling screams and very desperate pleas
But there is no respite until the terminal act is done
Gasping, choking, panting, heaving, weaving, gulping, wheezing and ejaculating
The release, the escape, the elusion
the departure from the earth
To a berth somewhere far above the talus, beyond the hammock
and atop the mighty billet
Redemption, atonement and reclamation, you can be the judge
but these are the ways of the world, the terrene on the material sublunary terrain
Such a furious, madcap state of affairs
Yet there is no elopement, no fadeout, no hegira
for only the worthy are left outward on the lam
Triumph in torment, the winning of the war
Lord god is there no other way to think about it
With your head pinned to the wall it is only possible to swallow the barrel of a gun
Blood splattered everywhere, soft tissue and gray matter splattered
high above the wall
But you know that there will be union,
a sacred reacquaintance of friends
Deep in the heart of an immaculate boy,
the reparation, the renewal and redress
Because this is the only way it could be,
the solitude, the detachment and lonesomeness
The victory of martyrdom, self-sacrifice and immolation,
gleaming high in the sky, glowering distant blue
But oh how tragic it is, is it possible that there could be another wile
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living
in Lowell, Massachusetts. His most recent books, "Straight from the
Heaven's Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the illustrations of
Seb Fowler and "Poetry for the Beat Generation, Volume I" are now
available at Lulu.com He may be reached at geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
