The Anthem of Decay – Part 1
A very personal journey
To die, to dream of dusty graves,
To lie upon a grave of dust as dust
A passing foot to carve my name –
This is no idle dream, death comes
A host of dust from foreign shores,
A gluttony of dust stands at the door.
This is no dust of war,
No dust gathered for Fortune’s brew,
This is the dust of lazy deaths,
Sudden, violent deaths
Reined by the dying hand
That vainly strives against the noose,
Knowing that dust has nailed the flesh
And lined its palm with a map of death.
There is no denying this dust –
Paper sins burn a dark incense,
Move the blue mists onto the Earth
And paint the barely ripened face
With self incestuous hues,
Shades culled from its sorry days.
Dust on the tongue,
Unctuous, persuasive dust.
It penetrates the verb
And stars with the heart
As the language of air and light,
Of water, firebirds, stone and light.
It revolves an open thesis
Offering its scholarship to me
And I am caught in the fever,
The stressful bed of boredom’s whore –
I listen to its sermon and cry.
Grey eyes, grey veins,
Grey blood stuck in the aorta
Stiffening in my veins,
Grey rivers spring upon my arm
And run across the sun weakly rattling
And I so deep a sleeper,
I, eaten by the three dimensions,
I cannot respond and uxurious lie.
Insidious dust!
It comes to silence my heart
And stand a witness to my grave.
To die, to dream of dying,
To lie upon a grave of dust as dust
A passing foot to carve my name.
Shall I now add: “Before the word is dry
I shall be gone
And none shall grieve
For I am the dust,
A handful blown before the wind,
Blown into the semblance of a man
And torn before it can be recognised.”?
I sing of death,
Sing in a room without a view
And hope a window will appear,
Open as the dust awakens my wings,
Hands me mastery of the airy grave
From which the songs fed on my blood
Will drop a dusty manna of my name,
All who eat to grieve
And having grieved pronounce my name,
Print it on the centuries in fire.
How cruel the birds!
there are stories of monks and nuns who block the only window of their room by placing an icon
this poem has an inescapable gloomy effect accentuated by the repetition of the word dust
very gothic poetry
there is a typo I think, uxurious perhaps should be luxurious?
Thank you for the comments, Ifyouplease. They are much appreciated. There is no typo, I meant “uxurious.”
there is a typo then, or misspelling? it’s uxorious. the only word I find close enough, doting. is that what you want to say?
I chose to mix “luxurious” with “uxorious” – it is a luxury to be able to indulge oneself in being uxorious. Most men men, btw, do not dote, they obsess.
I am lucky as I have met the last gentleman on Earth who is also the unluckiest male that has the unluckiest sister. They both dote a lot to no avail. Sorry for weird english and even weirder reply. Happy to have solved the mystery of uxurious now. thanks
There is a great poem here, trying to get out. With the greatest respect, I think you could par the poem down to free its spirit. I offer this after reading and reflecting upon it, over some days.
Best…Dougie
Thank you for reading, Dougie. Appreciate your kind comments about the poem. This is part of a longer poem, and will be publishing part 2 and 3 this week. I will wait until part 4 has been published before I think about any paring required.
Thanks Pilgermann; I see I was a little too hasty; if it is a longer poem it will change everything. I’ll be looking forward to reading the following parts.
Dougie
Dougie, this is part of the overall Refugee series of poems, and is the desire to die, yet in that same desire a greater desire to live, to love and be loved.