The part of me that used to say things and mean them is dead; there's nothing I won't swear on. But hear this.

Horned-en, give me some help with it.

Said he's a woods colt, walks sideways under the moon, has a way with edges. Says there ain't no sense marking trunks with his name—ain't a cypress left within a hundred hundred miles could hold him in a hole.

Better to meet him at the water.

Least things make sense there, least there's some fuckin' order to it all there.

Said snakes won't look at him, nor birds neither. Don't make no difference what manner or temperament. Ain't a matter of preference 'tall. Something they don't understand about the way he stands—the tilt of it, it's all wrong.

Once, something might've been done about him. Once, someone might've helped—not his place, after all. But now it's on you.

Don’t get it wrong — there’s something monstrous inside of each of us. No pure son of God. No last good man, I don't even remember what it is im supposed to be pretending to be.

Who hasn’t taken a walk on the wild side, walked down the bad roads at suspicious hours.

Who hasn’t caught a sweet stink in their nose that just won’t wash out? I say chase it; it’s good for the soul; you’ve gotta push yourself, push the edge.

But you — you’re sick. You’re what’s wrong with all this. A vestigial, depraved remnant. An old, proud crime.

You’d better shut the fuck up about it, ’cause I don’t want to hear it. There’ll be no coming to God for you. No pillars of paradise would deign to bear the weight of your obscenity your filth.

You know. You know, or you’re lying to yourself — come on, it’s obvious. Well, we all know.

Clamp real good and tight down on those chains. That rattle — that’s all the safety net you get. Make sure that mask is on nice and snug; Lord knows you can’t afford a fuck-up.

Let slip no secrets ’twixt thine twisted teeth — or else.

This goddamned geetish git.

You sent for this wretched little storyteller?

You think he’ll bring us to our close?

No, no, no, no — that’s not the nature of things.

That’s not how any of this works.

You fear my strength.

You fear it so much you summon this boorish interloper,

this someone’s son with all his hangers-on.

Hear this:

his shining plate will be an ironic ornament

on the ruined pile I’ll leave of him.

And as for you —

I’ve seen you.

I’ve seen you at the crest of the hill, against the sky.

I’ve felt the quaking of your coming

in the shadowed waters at the turning of the tide —

and yet here I am.

You lack the teeth, boy.

Whatever else I am, I’m a nasty old fuckin’ killer —

and you don’t have the sand.

Great black stones grown slick from the rain.

Home circle.

Follow it back to the woods, the clean and clear smell of rotting silver maples resting in the shadows of the hollow hearted sycamore amongst a great bed of clover

Rings of wood

Rings of rain

Hands carved marks deep in the rock

Glowing embers burn still deep beneath the light and air

And at the rising tide of spring i may sit amoung the boughs of my great maple and finally watch unwatched

If you and I were built for any time, it was surely the end.

For what other purpose would you hone a blade so keen?

No—

We will not flee this circling storm.

Right in the eye of it:

fire before rain.

That nice girl from the dock,

the one with the eyes and the head behind the moon.

You didn't kiss her,

'cause you were a coward, and now—

She's left her skin all over the road.

A red trail and a fuck-up

dragged her into the sticks.

There's a fella I don't remember.

He's stinking drunk and all of seventeen,

watching her breaths get harder

for hours and hours.

Those big eyes go still sometime in the night,

and at least she's free of that.

Soon, I'll have thought of that moment

for longer than she was alive.

The king falls in the water again and again.

Howsoever many ways it can be said;

it must always be said within:

men are without exception;

without order.

This quivering din of spear-song

will not sate these.

These crave the red iron air—

these who need this day named,

that they may matter

to their sons.

One foot in front of the other—

they march to wet oblivion,

pulled down into mud by metal skin.

Not one strangled gasp

will escape this muck.

Voices soiled,

held silent.

The dent

the glance

the plunge

the strike

the fall

Well.

These men are all ruined.

Get rid of them.

Supple form corrupted by depraved sprawling hands

Spurred on by lone perversion as to love they more truly

Thine tender lions will bear the rod,

for the sake of their suffering was this seeking of soft wet places performed

Fill my nose with your sacren smell,

fill my mouth with your dripping honey

I'm growing harder

watching the lovely little hurt in your eyes grow wider

Pushing and pulling

A slender back buckling

under the strain of a heavy hand

Blonde hair caught

in the ball of a fist

Translucent skin spread

before its master

A canvas

Potential,

what fun, what fun

This night may bring

I will die alone in a far away land if God is kind and luck is fair

I have no wish to fall at my father's feet

I don’t expect to get where I'm going but failing is half the fun

I'm a lingerer, a bad soldier,

I have no interest in playing any chosen part,

or striking out with any intent beyond movement

I plan to see what's over that next hill

and I'll probably die doing it