Songs for the Deaf

by Horab Fibslager

speak only in silence

defiling the graves of ancient trees,
i'll bring you to your knees,
flesh of this,
flesh of that
prejudicial dish
in judgement you sat
let she who is without
pierce me now
and drink of my water
and feast of my bread
for now
only i walk among the dead
wandering spirit
trapped in a cage
mindful always of the
tenthousand plagues!
the perfect state
in full bloom stagnates.

who mourns the trees
in their airconditioned
automobiles?
blood for sap,
oil is the soul
that we sell for favours granted.
a eulogy for the wise
beyond our comprehension.
does the willow not weep?

think not of me, but thank
our brothers the trees
for the air we breath.
we soil their gift
and taint their treaty.
how long before
we choke upon the ashes of our
own downfall?

waking #xyz
rooting through my box here for a resume,
i found soem old poems from when i could still write at the pub:

unnamed poem one

i dreamed a dream
i was a wake
and then i was
upon the merry
rolling hills of hell
crashing upon some distant tide
a folded sky from stars
shone down and you
your naked eyes
transfixed upon oblivion

unnamed poem two

oh these waking times
this terrible burden of
connected moments
held linear by a tether.
for dreams are what is true,
in those lucid times
events unconnected
with no memory
of purpose or name,
nor of self or being.
take me back then
to that fall
that bliss
which is tasted from
within the depths
of sweet abyss and
warm nothing.

infinity unfolded

Like infinity unfolding
The space between opens up
The sky's maw grins wide
And the heavens spill themselves
Upon the manifestation of my mind

I open my eyes as i fall awake
A normal oddity, a common rarity
No longer do i drown in the sunshine of your Smile

Cast adrift upon the endless tides of a forever Ocean
I land upon Your beautiful shores
Shipwrecked forevermore
Isolated within the the island of your
Love

I will ask for much
But never for more

ode to poo

oh poo
you are poop
lol
poop is cool.

own personal celebrity

wtf s the deal
with the life recorder?
promised immortality in teh telvision sets of your children?
pictures lost to rust
fuck your immortality drive
let me die obscure
unkown and uncared for.
doesn't everyone?

magick

don't you dare change for me
change for yourself
change for money
change for goddess
who am i beside these things?

none kinds of idiot

every word i write is as serious as the sun rising upon the mountains streaming
forth awareness, being and self soaking into the discombopulated
depths with clarity so profound that it is teh w0rd. and teh w0rd is pwn. and
so shall it go forth, and forward, and sometimes to the left and right, and
once in a while backwards, with some variations thereof for spice, as spice is
the variety of life, and life is the metaphor that breathes deeply upon teh
carcinogens speeding forward from it's mother's loins to it's Mother's bosom,
beneath the bodhi tree, growing in the garden, upon teh mountain which is
soaking in the sun.

having a shitty memory sucks.

soemtimes i think i am crazy
sometimes i think i am mad
occasionaly i think myself sane
but that's the only delusion i have.

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